


Of Risks And Certainties

by flawedamythyst



Series: Of Benefits And Certainties [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the attempt on Sherlock's life, and the change in John and Sherlock's relationship, they struggle to bring down Moriarty's organisation so that they can go home.</p><p>Thanks to Earlgreytea68, Trillsabells and SmallHobbit for betaing, you were all excellent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Risks And Certainties

Immediately after having made a crazy bet, there was always a moment when John just knew that he was going to beat the odds and win, and win big, and damn anyone who thought otherwise. It was a surge that made him feel as if he could take on the whole world, and he knew it too well.

It was identical to the emotional rush when he kissed Sherlock for the first time, and gambled their entire friendship on the hope that Sherlock's reaction to John being poisoned might mean that he would welcome it rather than turn away in revulsion, and it was followed immediately by another feeling he knew too well. The sickening lurch as he realised just what he'd done, just how much he'd risked on odds so slender that any sane person would have walked away. He wasn't a sane person though, and a second later, when Sherlock pulled him back to kiss him again, he was overwhelmingly glad that he wasn't.

A week later, John woke up to find Sherlock curled up asleep on the end of his bed, fully clothed and on top of the blanket as if he'd only meant to lie down for a moment. One of his hands was clutching at John's ankle through the covers, tightly enough for John to feel it despite the padding of the duvet.

John had been sleeping propped up against some pillows in order to aid his breathing, which gave him the perfect angle from which to watch Sherlock. He wondered what time Sherlock had lain down and how much sleep he'd had. Not enough, probably.

There was a movement in the shadows by the door. John tensed up and reached for the gun on the bedside table before he even looked over to see what it was. When he saw who was standing by the door, he relaxed, although not completely. He still wasn't really sure how to take Mycroft, especially as any conversation with him felt like the linguistic equivalent of a ten mile run in full kit. Not exactly what John wanted at this time of the morning.

“Good morning, John,” said Mycroft in a quiet voice.

“Morning,” returned John, glancing back at Sherlock, but their voices didn't seem to have disturbed him.

“I trust you are feeling better,” said Mycroft.

John took a moment to evaluate before replying. His lungs still felt as if he'd spent thirty years chain-smoking, but he was breathing easily enough now, and the injuries he'd got at the pool were healing up well. “I'm fine.”

“Ah, excellent,” said Mycroft, moving closer to the bed. “In that case, allow me to indulge in a conversation that I have been putting off for several days.”

John immediately wished that he'd lied and said he felt awful. “Right,” he said cautiously. “What's that?”

Mycroft nodded at Sherlock's sleeping form. “I am sure that you are aware that my brother's welfare is extremely important to me,” he said. “Both the physically and emotionally.”

Oh God, it was the 'if you hurt my brother, I'll kill you' talk. Only the Mycroft version was likely to be 'if you hurt my brother, I'll have you vanished so thoroughly that even your family will refuse to admit you ever existed.'

“His welfare is important to me too,” said John. “You don't have to worry, I'm not going to hurt him.”

“I am sure that is your intention now, but we cannot foresee future events,” said Mycroft. “I should also like to point out that it is more likely that he will hurt you. His tendency to disregard what little he does know about human emotion means that it is probable that he will say and do things that will upset you on a rather regular basis.”

“And?” asked John. “I already know that. I've lived with him for three months, remember? I'm getting used to the insults.”

Mycroft nodded. “I just wanted to ensure that you were aware,” he said. “I would not want you to decide after a few months that such a situation is unfavourable, and leave. He has taken rather an unprecedented gamble in opening himself up to you as much as he has. You have the capacity to hurt him far more than anyone else ever has.” His face took on a hard, cold look. “I would be most displeased if you proved yourself to be a bad bet by letting his abrasiveness drive you away.”

Right, so the Holmes version of the speech was rather roundabout, and took in Sherlock's unique ability to piss people off. Of course it did.

John glared at Mycroft. “I rather think that's nothing to do with you,” he said, before adding, because he was an older brother himself and had even given a couple of these talks in his time, “Besides, I knew him before I got into this. If I leave, it won't be because he's being Sherlock, it'll be-” He stopped and had to think. He couldn't think of anything that he would leave Sherlock for – not something that Sherlock would actually do, anyway. He could hardly imagine coming home to find Sherlock having sex with someone else, or waking up one day to realise he was bored of their relationship. The idea of becoming bored of Sherlock was ridiculous. The reverse, on the other hand, was frighteningly likely.

The hand on his ankle tightened. “What?” asked Sherlock in a sleep-roughened voice. “What would make you leave?”

John looked at him, at the way his hair had fanned out on the blankets and his shirt had sagged open to reveal a few pale inches of collarbone. “I don't know,” he said. “I can't imagine it.”

Sherlock looked rather pleased at that for a brief moment before he turned to glare at Mycroft. “You can piss off now.”

Mycroft let out a put-upon sigh. “Must you always be so rude, Sherlock?” he said. “I was merely attempting to-”

“You were meddling,” interrupted Sherlock. “Don't. It's none of your business.”

“Very well, then,” said Mycroft. “If you insist.” He looked at John with the air of an adult cutting a child out of the conversation. “There is breakfast available in the kitchen. I have an early meeting and will likely be gone until late this evening, I'm afraid. Feel free to eat whatever you want, especially if you can persuade Sherlock to eat as well.”

“Thanks, Mycroft,” said John, trying to ignore that Sherlock was muttering angry things into the blanket.

Mycroft nodded at him, also ignoring Sherlock, and then left the room. John let himself relax, then kicked gently at Sherlock. “Why do you always revert to being a five-year-old around him?” he asked.

Sherlock straightened out and moved up the bed to lie next to John. “Because it irritates him,” he said. “He deserves it for creeping in here to interfere.”

“He was just looking to protect you,” said John. “I've done that speech before, you know.”

Sherlock gave him a condescending smile. “That wasn't what he was doing,” he said. “That's what he wanted you to think he was doing, but why on earth would he do it while I was here, especially as he'll have known the moment I woke up?”

John thought about that, running back through the conversation in his head. “If he knew you were awake, he must have wanted you to hear,” he said slowly, reasoning it out. “But not what he was saying – he could have just said it to you, and you never listen to him anyway, so it must have been something I said – Oh.” It was obvious once he looked at it from the point of view of an over-protective and very manipulative Holmes. “He wanted you to hear me say that your usual behaviour wasn't going to drive me away.”

Sherlock beamed as if he had performed an impressive trick. “Precisely,” he said and kissed him briefly on the lips. John didn't let him get away with leaving it at that, pulling him back in and kissing him properly, letting his hand run through Sherlock's hair. Given the twin barriers of working around John's injuries and the stifling effect of being in Mycroft's house, they hadn't done much more than kiss yet, but John was enjoying the luxury of being allowed to kiss Sherlock whenever he wanted too much to really mind.

Sherlock kissed him back with the single-minded thoroughness with which he did everything that was important to him, and John was distracted from the conversation for a while. When they finally let their mouths part, Sherlock cupped his hand around John's face and gave him that same, pleased smile.

“You already knew that, though,” said John. “He was wasting his time.”

A look passed over Sherlock's face so fast that John almost missed it. It wasn't one he'd seen much of before and it took him a moment to classify it as uncertainty. John rolled his eyes and clenched his hand gently in Sherlock's curls, shaking his head slightly. “Idiot,” he said. “Of course I'm not going to leave just because you're being you. Why would I do that now if I haven't before?”

“Things are different now,” Sherlock pointed out. “People put up with things in a friend that they don't in a lover.”

“I could say the same to you,” said John. “After all, you've made it pretty clear how boring you find most people.”

“Not you,” said Sherlock in a low voice. “Never you.”

John smiled at him and kissed him again. “Well then, there you go,” he said, hoping that it would be that simple. Any relationship was impossible to predict at the start of it, and John was willing to bet that was doubly true of any relationship involving Sherlock. The chances of it all going horribly wrong, of one or both of them being hurt were pretty high, but it was a gamble that John thought was worth taking. After all, what if they managed to make it work? The potential reward was incalculable.

“Come on,” he said, reluctantly pulling himself away from Sherlock in order to sit up. “Let's go and see what Mycroft's left for breakfast.”

Sherlock made a face, but whether that was aimed at Mycroft or the idea of breakfast was impossible to tell. John was too hungry to care either way.

****

After John had eaten his fill and Sherlock had picked at the toast John forced on him, they went back up to John's room. Sherlock had moved all his piles of research in there, covering half the room with case files and paperwork and large maps of connections and links written in a shorthand that only made sense to Sherlock.

Sherlock settled himself back in amongst them while John took a shower and got dressed, then sat down on the bed to get his breath back and rest for a bit. His injuries meant that just having breakfast and a shower was rather draining.

“Found anything new?” he asked.

Sherlock half-shook his head, not bothering to look up from the paper he was glaring at. “I'm starting to see Moriarty's web,” he said, “but it's lacking far too much detail – he's infiltrated almost everything, but finding exactly where, and how, is extremely tricky.”

“Well, if anyone can do it, you can,” said John.

Sherlock huffed out a breath and tore his gaze away from the paper to give John an amused look. “While I appreciate the confidence,” he said, “some things are beyond even my abilities. I can't create data from nothing, you know. If I could just go out and actually get in amongst his people-”

“No,” said John immediately. “You're not doing that – if he's actively trying to kill you now, you can't put yourself at risk like that.”

“I don't see why not,” said Sherlock petulantly, and John wondered how many more times they'd have this argument. “It would make it so much easier for me to identify his men and properly map out his operation.”

“You're not doing it,” said John. “And you know why not.” If Sherlock had been fully set on this course of action, then there would have been no stopping him. He must agree with John's reasons at least in part, or he would have already slipped away from Mycroft's house while everyone else was asleep to go through with it. “If I can't go with you to watch your back, you're not going anywhere.”

“You can barely climb a flight of stairs without needing to stop to get your breath,” Sherlock pointed out. “What could you do to watch my back?”

“Exactly my point,” said John. “You'll have to wait until I'm better. Concentrate on your research for now.”

Sherlock muttered something grumpy under his breath, but turned back to his paperwork without arguing further.

****

The next day, Mycroft brought Sherlock a copy of The Big Issue. “A message from your less respectable allies,” he said, then nodded at John and left the room.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, flicking through the pages until he found the slip of paper inside. He read it, then looked up at John with a triumphant grin. “We have him!”

“Who?” asked John.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran,” said Sherlock. “He is a regular at the Bagatelle Club, an unlicensed gambling establishment.”

“How did you discover that?” asked John. He'd thought that part of the investigation had been put on hold until he was recovered enough to scout around the various gambling dens that Sherlock had identified as likely places for Moran to hang out.

Sherlock shrugged. “I gave the list of places and a photo to my network, and they watched them all until they saw him at one.” He held up the note. “Billy says that Moran was greeted by name, so he must be a regular there.”

“But if you could ask your network to watch for him, why were we planning to go at all?” asked John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's much more entertaining to do the research yourself,” he said. “Mycroft is the one who passes off all the legwork onto minions, you know.” He got up from the desk in order to come and sit on the bed next to John. “I'm far more active,” he said in a suggestive tone and kissed him, holding onto his shoulders until John lay back and pulled Sherlock with him. 

They lay like that for rather a long time, pressed as closely together as they could get. Unfortunately, just as things were starting to get interesting, John felt his breath beginning to get strained, pulling at his lungs in an unpleasant way. Sherlock immediately moved away, resisting John's attempts to pull him back again. A little discomfort was no reason to stop kissing Sherlock.

Sherlock rested his forehead on John's shoulder. “When will you be well enough to investigate a gambling den?”

John hesitated. “How much running is there going to be?”

“None,” said Sherlock. “We're going to be in disguise. Just two men out for an illicit thrill. You'll be sitting at a card table for most of it.”

Cards. John had a sudden flash of the red-and-black of a deck of cards, of the thrill as the dealer turned them over and he knew everything rested on that one moment. He took a careful breath, testing his lungs. “A couple of days,” he said. As long as Sherlock was right about the lack of running, there was no reason why he'd have a problem. He carefully buried the thought that almost every outing with Sherlock ended with running, one way or another.

Sherlock looked at him with narrow eyes. “And if I was the one injured?”

John laughed. “Sherlock, if it was you, you'd already be there.”

Sherlock regarded him for another moment, then nodded. “We'll go Friday,” he said. “That's when he's most likely to be in, and if he isn't we can always ask around. Subtly, of course.” He paused. “I'll do all the asking, you're rubbish at subtle. Just do your best to blend in.”

“Right,” said John. He slid his fingers over Sherlock's cheek, rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone. “I've got my breath back now,” he pointed out.

Sherlock gave him a bright grin and then moved in for another series of heated kisses.

****

Sherlock went through John's clothes on Friday afternoon, then eventually threw a pair of trousers and a shirt at him. “Put those on,” he demanded.

“Okay,” said John, looking at them. They weren't really a great deal different from what he was currently wearing. “Sherlock-”

“Quickly,” interrupted Sherlock. “I want to get your make-up done as well.”

That made John pause. “Make-up?” he repeated.

Sherlock gave him a frustrated look. “Moran will know what we look like,” he said. “He was almost certainly the sniper at the pool. We can't go as ourselves.”

“So who am I going as?” asked John, looking at the shirt again.

“Captain James Turner, late of her Majesty's army,” said Sherlock. “Wounded in action, which will explain your injuries, and awaiting your medical discharge.”

“Right,” said John. “You realise that that's not a million miles from the truth, right?”

“That's precisely why I chose it,” said Sherlock. “You're an appalling liar, John. This way, you just have to play up aspects of yourself rather than invent new ones. You should be grumpy and uncommunicative, like you are before your tea in the mornings.”

“And the make-up?” asked John.

“I'm going to give you a healing burn on your face,” said Sherlock. “Distract from your features. Ideally we'd be dying your hair as well, or at least cutting it, but I rather like it as it is. We'll have to rely on how much it has grown since the pool.”

John couldn't stop himself from running a hand through his hair. Sherlock liked it? But it was just a rather dull dirty-blond colour, and the cut was all over the place at the moment – compared to Sherlock's thick curls, it was unimpressive.

Sherlock gave him a little smile and stepped closer to run his own hand through John's hair. “Put the clothes on,” he said.

“Yeah,” said John, thinking for the thousandth time that he really had absolutely no idea what it was Sherlock saw when he looked at him. Why on earth would a beautiful genius like him possibly want to be with someone like John?

It wasn't until Sherlock was applying the fake burn to John's face that he thought to ask, “What's your disguise going to be?”

“I'm going to be your American cousin,” said Sherlock.

“Cousin?” said John, trying to imagine a world in which Sherlock and he were related, and shuddering back from the thought when he realised that would make Mycroft his cousin as well. “Wait, American? Can you even do an American accent?”

“Of course I can,” said Sherlock in an extremely convincing American accent. “Accents are easy.”

“Right, of course,” said John, wondering why he'd thought, even for a moment, that there was anything Sherlock couldn't do.

“We're going to broadly hint that I'm on a small-time TV show, something aimed at brain-dead teenagers, and that I'm in London to escape both my fans and the media,” continued Sherlock, leaning back to examine the effect of whatever it was he was smothering over John's face. “That'll give me an excuse to wear a hat and sunglasses indoors – D-list celebrities always try to make out they're more famous and harassed than they actually are.”

“You're not cutting your hair, then?” asked John, suppressing a smile.

Sherlock snorted. “Neither of us would want that,” he said. “Don't think I haven't noticed how often your hands find their way into it.”

John let the smile spread across his face, and reached up to burrow his fingers into Sherlock's curls. “It is rather good for that,” he agreed.

Sherlock tilted his head into John's hands, letting his eyes shut as John rubbed the tips of his fingers along Sherlock's scalp. “One day very soon,” said Sherlock in a low, thrumming voice, “you're going to hold onto my hair like this while I suck your cock.”

John pulled in a strangled breath at the mental image, and a wave of pure want rushed through him. “God, yes,” he said, and Sherlock half-opened his eyes, looking at him with a lust-filled look that John could almost feel burning into him. He found himself holding his breath for a moment, and then started to cough as his lungs protested the lack of a regular rhythm. He let go of Sherlock's hair as he tried to recover himself.

“But it won't be until after you stop doing that,” said Sherlock.

John scowled at him around the coughing. “You're a bloody tease,” he said, once he had it under control.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “You were expecting otherwise?”

“No, I suppose not,” said John with a sigh. Of course, it was typical of his luck that now that he and Sherlock had finally got together, he was in no fit state to shag him rotten.

“You're sure you're going to be okay tonight?” asked Sherlock, and John glared at him harder.

“I'll be fine,” he said. “Get on with the make-up.”

****

They borrowed Mycroft's car for the evening. Sherlock instructed the driver to take them by the most convoluted route he could, in case anyone followed them from the house, then drop them off in an alley a short distance from the Bagatelle Club.

“Let me do most of the talking,” he reminded John in the car. He was dressed in a pair of skin-tight jeans, a t-shirt with a logo on it that John was sure he should recognise as designer, and a battered leather jacket. Combined with sunglasses and a beanie pulled down over his hair, he looked the very image of young Hollywood on a night out. John was finding it rather hard to keep his eyes off him, and was a bit worried that someone was going to ask why he kept staring at his cousin's arse.

“I know,” said John, because he'd been told that at least six times already. “Really, I don't think I'm as bad at lying as you seem to think I am.”

Sherlock let out a snort and John scowled at him.

“I managed to keep my feelings for you hidden, didn't I?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and gave him a narrow-eyed look. “How long?” he asked.

They hadn't really talked about this yet – in fact, John wouldn't have been surprised if they never did. Conversations about emotions weren't exactly Sherlock's strong point, and John wasn't a huge fan of them either. Even knowing that his feelings were returned, that Sherlock apparently wanted to give up his precious marriage to his work for him, he couldn't shake the feeling that talking about this sort of thing was only going to lead to scorn from Sherlock.

He shrugged one shoulder. “A few months.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him. “We've only known each other a few months,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” said John shortly. There was definitely no way he was going to tell Sherlock that he'd been a bit too fascinated with him since that very first meeting in the lab at Bart's.

Sherlock's expression faded into surprised pleasure and he reached out for John's hand, but he didn't ask further questions, to John's relief.

“We're here,” he said a few minutes later, letting go of John's hand as he glanced out the window. The car pulled to a stop, and Sherlock threw open the door and leapt out, then hustled John out quickly. The car drove away the moment the door was shut again, and Sherlock grabbed John's wrist to pull him in the opposite direction. They ducked through several side streets, Sherlock keeping a careful look out for anyone who might be too interested in their progress.

“Right,” he said in a sub-tone when they eventually stopped. “The club's around the corner. From now on, you need to be James Turner.”

“Okay,” said John, putting his hand on his chest to feel the effect of the walk on his lungs. The rattle of air through them was barely noticeable. “So, I shouldn't do this, then?” he said, and pulled Sherlock down for a kiss. Walking through London's streets at night had reminded him how often they'd done this with John silently pining, and he wasn't going to let this moment pass without taking advantage of the fact that he could reach out and take what he wanted now, finally.

Sherlock tried to scowl at him when he pulled away, but John could see it was half-hearted at best.

“Cousins,” he reminded John. John just gave him an unrepentant grin.

****

John wasn't quite sure how Sherlock managed to bluff their way into the club. The door was answered by a massive bouncer who looked at them as if he was already working out where he'd dump the bodies, but after two minutes of Sherlock's undercover-celebrity act, which included claiming to know some bloke John had never heard of but who the bouncer was clearly familiar with, the door was swung open for them.

“Awesome,” said Sherlock with puppyish enthusiasm. “Thanks, dude.”

The Bagatelle Club was several rooms set around a lobby, each of them dedicated to a different game: roulette, blackjack, poker. Sherlock bought them drinks at the bar in the lobby, talking enthusiastically the whole time about what an awesome place this was, and how it was like some place he went to back home, only 'way more British'. John remembered Sherlock's advice to act as if he'd just woken up, and restricted himself to monosyllabic answers, but he was secretly rather amused at Sherlock's bouncy American persona.

After they'd got their drinks, Sherlock took them on a quick tour of each of the rooms, clearly on the look out for Moran, although he kept up his stream of chatter as they went. Moran was nowhere to be seen, so they paused in the lobby again, and Sherlock bent down to speak quietly in John's ear.

“He might be in later, or someone here might know him. We'll have to play a few games.”

“Right,” said John, glancing at the blackjack room. He hadn't played since the Army, and the thought of it was enough to send a rush through him.

“Moran's game is poker,” said Sherlock. “That will be the best place to start.” He gave John a faint frown as he said it, as if he was trying to see into his skull.

John pulled himself together and nodded. This evening wasn't about indulging himself, it was about catching a criminal.

Sherlock sat them at a poker table in the centre of the room, and immediately set about chatting to everyone around them, finding out far more from them than they were probably aware of while at the same time feeding them the most outrageous lies about himself.

“Oh yeah, back home in LA I play all the time,” he was saying as their fifth hand was dealt. “I belong to this cool little club, it's real low-key. Tobey Maguire goes there, and Jason Alexander. They're both really great guys, totally laid back.”

John would have been more amused at how easily Sherlock was taking the rest of the table in, but everything in him was focused on the cards. If the next card was a club, he'd have a flush. That was a chance worth raising the stakes for, even if he didn't really have anything at the moment.

He raised, and Sherlock sent him a darting frown. “Flying high tonight,” he said. “I didn't think an Army pension went that far.”

John shrugged without looking at him, focusing on the dealer's hands as he laid down the last card instead. “It won't need to if I win here,” he said.

A heart. Damnit. Well, maybe he'd be able to bluff his way through this round.

“You were in the Army?” asked the man to Sherlock's right. “No wonder you're taking risks – I usually play with another bloke who used to be in the Army, and he always does the same. They always seem to pay off as well, the bastard.”

He seemed cheerfully resigned to that, rather than pissed off. If he was already resigned to losing, maybe he'd fold more easily. John raised again – you didn't win anything without a few risks, after all.

The man laughed. “Yeah, just like that,” he said.

“Which part of the Army was this guy in?” asked Sherlock. “Maybe James knew him.”

“Oh, I've no idea,” said the man, meeting the raise as the dealer came around to him. John fought to keep the scowl off his face – he'd been hoping he'd fold. “He was a colonel, though – Colonel Sebastian Moran. Heard of him?”

John pulled his attention away from the game at that. They were one step closer to Moran, and so to Moriarty, and it had taken less than ten hands.

Sherlock shook his head very faintly at John, who shook his own with more force in response. “Never heard of him.”

“I suppose the Army's pretty big,” said the man, turning over his cards to reveal two tens.

John sighed and pushed his bet over to him. Well, Sherlock would want to pump him for information, so there'd be plenty of time to win it back.

****

He didn't win it back. The man, who eventually introduced himself as Ron Adair, continued to chat with them while happily winning more and more off John. Sherlock established that Moran was not due in tonight, that when he did come in he almost always won, and that no one was really sure what he did as a job, all while keeping his own wins and losses completely even. John tried to comfort himself with the idea that he'd used all his luck up when Sherlock had kissed him back, and that it had been more than worth it, but it was still frustrating to find himself losing so badly. He started taking bigger and bigger risks, hoping to get some of it back, and ignored Sherlock's pointed looks and attempts to rein him in. There was no point in playing if you weren't going to commit to the game.

“Is he in Army housing still?” Sherlock asked. “James only moved out last month – damn, that was a dump.”

“Oh no,” said Ron. “He's been out of the Army for a good few years. He lives over in Muswell Hill. It's a pretty nice house – he had a poker night over there a few months back.”

“Muswell Hill?” asked Sherlock. “Hey, James, isn't that where your brother lives?”

John looked up from his contemplation of yet another appalling hand, and tried to concentrate on the other game being played here. “Yes,” he said, trying to picture Muswell Hill in his head. “Just by Alexandra Palace.”

“Oh, his place is further west, over by Highgate,” said Ron. “It's all a bit ostentatious, really. Seb has an actual tower on his house.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like Beverly Hills,” he said. “Swimming pools and tennis courts?”

“Oh no, not that bad,” said Ron. “It's only a little one-storey add-on, but it's still a bit much on a house that's already got three storeys. A lot of space for a bachelor. I've got a flat that's about a tenth the size, and it's quite enough for me.” He gave Sherlock a careful look. “You could come over and see it later if you wanted,” he offered.

John sent him an extremely dirty look before he could stop himself. First he took all John's money (well, Mycroft's money) and now he was trying to take Sherlock.

“Ah, that's okay,” said Sherlock, sounding amused. “I've promised my girlfriend I'd call later – she's still in LA. Time differences, you know.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, James, we should go soon. You know she had that audition today, she'll want to tell me how that went.”

No, no, no. John was going to start winning soon, he could feel it. They couldn't leave now. “She can wait a few more hands,” he said. “It's still early there.”

“She can wait, but I can't,” said Sherlock, giving John a sleazy grin that looked entirely out of place on his face. “She said if it went well she'd get on the webcam for me. C'mon, dude, you know how long it's been since I got laid.”

John glared at him. “Just one more hand,” he said stubbornly and turned back to the dealer, who was watching them, waiting for a decision to be made.

Sherlock let out a quiet breath. “James,” he said, and despite it being the wrong name and the wrong accent, it was the same tone as he used whenever he had to call John's attention to something obvious. “Listen to your breathing.”

John blinked at him in surprise and put a hand on his chest. There was a distinct rattle as his breath pulled in and out of his lungs, and he wondered how the hell he hadn't noticed that earlier. He glanced at the cards once more, then nodded, forcing himself away. There was always another time – there were plenty of casinos in London, after all.

Ron was giving John a worried look, as if he'd only just noticed that he was less than healthy. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” said John. 

“Just a bit of smoke damage,” said Sherlock. “He got blown up.”

Ron's eyebrows went all the way up. “Oh, right,” he said. “Well, I hope you're feeling better soon. You'll have to come back another night.”

Sherlock gave him a sardonic look. “So you can win the rest of his money?”

Ron laughed. “Maybe he'll win mine,” he said. “Lady Luck's smiling on me tonight, but she's notoriously fickle.”

Sherlock's expression gave away his reaction to that, but he didn't comment. They bade Ron goodbye and headed for the exit, and John noticed that even Sherlock's walk was different, with more of a bouncing lope to it. He wondered how many more times he'd find himself impressed by Sherlock, and whether the sense of amazement at his existence would ever wear off.

Sherlock hailed them a taxi once they were outside and directed it to where they'd arranged to meet Mycroft's car. He was silent as they drove, clearly lost in thought, and it wasn't until they'd moved from the taxi to the car and begun another long and convoluted route back to Mycroft's house that John broke the quiet.

“Did you get enough information, then?”

Sherlock glanced at him as if he'd completely forgotten he was there. “Oh yes,” he said. “More than enough.” He paused, then gave John a too-knowing look. “I'm afraid we won't need to go back.”

John suppressed the disappointment beneath a wave of annoyance. “I wasn't suggesting we should.”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. He pulled out his phone and immersed himself in it before John could respond to that, so John contented himself with a glare at the side of his head, then went back to staring out of the window, trying to keep his breathing as steady as he could and wondering if he'd need to hook himself up to the oxygen tank when they got to Mycroft's. He really hoped not – he hated that thing.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock let out a satisfied noise, then tucked his phone away. “There are only three houses that might be Moran's,” he said. “That's few enough for us to investigate them all in one night.”

John turned and stared at him. “You know that already?” he asked.

“Google streetview,” said Sherlock.

Right, of course. “Tomorrow night?” asked John.

Sherlock gave him a long look. “If you're well enough,” he said. “I take it you won't let me go alone.”

“Of course not,” said John, bristling at the very suggestion. “And I'll be more than well enough tomorrow.”

Sherlock kept looking at him for several minutes, then reached out and took John's hand. “You shouldn't risk your health over this.”

The tone of his voice, low and a little hesitant, was more than enough to melt John's irritation. He squeezed Sherlock's hand in return. “I won't. I'll be fine tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn't look as if he entirely believed that, but he nodded in reply, rubbing his thumb over the back of John's hand. They spent the rest of the drive in a comfortable silence.

****

John didn't bother with the oxygen in the end. By the time they got back, his breathing was already beginning to recover so he merely sat on the bed, propped up on his pillows, and watched as Sherlock added the information they had found out to his endless piles of notes.

Once he had finished, Sherlock spun around in his chair to face John and looked at him for a long moment, until John raised an eyebrow.

“You didn't tell me you have a weakness for gambling,” said Sherlock in response.

That was not what John had expected him to say at all. He felt his face go stony. “I don't.”

Sherlock didn't look as if he believed that for a minute. “Do you even know how much you lost tonight?” he asked.

“I'd have won it back if you'd let me stay,” said John, then realised that was probably the wrong thing to say.

“No, you wouldn't,” said Sherlock. 

John scowled at him. How the hell did he know how the cards would have fallen if they'd stayed? “Everyone loses sometimes,” he said. “Besides, I thought it was Mycroft's money and didn't matter?”

“So you'd have played less recklessly if it had been your own money?”

John scowled. “I wasn't playing _recklessly_. You have to take a few risks, or it's not worth playing.”

“My point precisely,” said Sherlock, leaning forward in his chair. “Gambling becomes a problem when you can't tell the difference between a risk and recklessness.”

“It's not a problem,” insisted John. “I just get a bit focused, that's all.”

“You were so _focused_ that you didn't notice yourself becoming ill,” pointed out Sherlock. “You'd have stayed all night if I hadn't been there, and lost even more money, regardless of who it belonged to. Ever since we left, you've been thinking about going back, or about finding somewhere else to play. These are all classic signs of an addiction.”

That did it. John glared at him. “It's not an _addiction_ ,” he spat out. “I haven't played since I left the Army. One evening of cards is not an addiction – that's not starting to drink at breakfast, or snorting cocaine every chance I get.”

Sherlock went a very strange, pale colour. “Actually,” he said in sharp voice, “I used to inject it.” He stood up, gathering an armful of files and his laptop as he did so. “I shall leave you to your rest,” he said, and then swept out. John was left staring at the empty chair.

****

An hour later, the anger had faded and he felt like an utter bastard. Just because Sherlock had touched on a sore point – John had spent years watching various members of his family be destroyed by their addictions and had vowed that he would never let the same thing happen to him – he'd let himself over-react. If he'd remained calm, he could have explained to Sherlock how it really wasn't a problem to have a little flutter every now and then, and he could now be sleeping with the quiet sounds of Sherlock working in the background, instead of sitting alone in his room, feeling the eyes of the woman in that awful portrait boring into him accusingly.

As if to prove that things could always get worse, there was a gentle tap on the door, then Mycroft came in without waiting for a response. John suddenly had a split-second of empathy for Sherlock's usual reaction to Mycroft's appearance and he wondered if he could get away with throwing a pillow at him. Probably not - he was meant to be the more mature one, after all.

“Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft. “I was hoping to find you still awake.” He glanced at the empty desk chair, then back at John. “I see you have somehow persuaded Sherlock to let up his vigil.”

John stared at him. “Vigil?” he asked.

“It cannot have slipped your notice that he has been watching over you almost obsessively since you were poisoned,” said Mycroft, and John suddenly felt a hundred times worse. Mycroft was right, Sherlock had barely let him out of his sight for long enough to shower, even coming down to the kitchen with him when he went for food.

“His absence is beneficial,” said Mycroft. “I should like to have a word with you without his intercession, in order to impress on you the importance of taking care with his emotions.”

John groaned. “Didn't we already have this conversation?” he asked. “Or at least one close enough to count?”

“I had thought so,” said Mycroft, “but it would seem that you have already managed to upset Sherlock enough to make him leave you to sleep alone, despite the possible dangers associated with your bedsheets.”

“He started it,” said John, then wondered if saying that didn't negate his earlier thought that he was the mature one. What was it about Mycroft that meant having a conversation with him made people regress to childhood?

“Ah, of course,” said Mycroft. “It is my understanding that he committed the grave and unforgivable error of attempting to show concern over some unexpected behaviour you displayed this evening. The kind of behaviour that he personally knows can quickly become out-of-control.” John felt his glare grow in line with the guilt in his stomach. How the hell did Mycroft know that? Had he bugged the room? Oh god, of course he had. The whole house was probably wired.

“Well, whatever the cause,” continued Mycroft, “I feel this is an excellent opportunity to remind you that before you met Sherlock, you had nothing. It would not take very much effort from me to return you to such a state. Or to less than it.”

John had been right. Mycroft's version of this speech was far more chilling than the usual one. John had no doubts at all that if Mycroft decided that he needed to disappear from Sherlock's life, the situation he'd find himself in would make everywhere else he'd ever been look like paradise. Even the warzones he'd been in.

“I'm not sure Sherlock would appreciate you trying to bully me into being a good boyfriend,” he said, trying to keep how shaken he was out of his voice.

Mycroft smiled coldly. “I don't particularly care about what Sherlock would or wouldn't appreciate,” he said. “As long as he remains as happy as he is capable of being. Or, should I say, as happy as you are capable of making him.” John definitely wanted to throw a pillow at him at that, but settled for gripping the bedcovers with a white-knuckled grip instead.

“I believe you have a lovers tiff to put an end to,” said Mycroft, “so I shall leave you to it.” He left the room with John still glaring impotently after him.

God damn the man, who did he think he was? Whatever happened between John and Sherlock was up to them, and Mycroft had no place trying to force any part of it. For a moment, John was tempted to not go and talk to Sherlock, but he'd already mostly decided to before Mycroft had appeared. Staying where he was in a fit of pique at Mycroft wasn't going to help anything.

He went out into the corridor, glancing both ways to make sure that Mycroft had buggered off and wasn't hanging about to make sure John did as he was told. There was no one around – well, no one but the electronic surveillance. He tapped on Sherlock's door gently, just in case a miracle had occurred and Sherlock had gone to sleep.

There was the distinctive noise of Sherlock throwing something that sounded like a file down, but no other response.

“Sherlock?” John called softly. “Can I come in?” He glanced down the hallway, unable to shake the feeling that Mycroft would appear from nowhere again in order to tell him he was doing it wrong. There was a rustle of paper from within, but Sherlock still didn't say anything. “Please?” added John. “I want to apologise. Also, your brother is being creepy again.”

The door was pulled open an instant later. “What did he do?” demanded Sherlock.

“He wanted me to apologise,” said John. “Can I come in?”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “You're going to do what he wants you to do?”

“Not because he wants me to,” said John. “I'm going to apologise because it's the right thing to do. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn't have lost my temper like that.”

Sherlock looked at him for another very long minute, during which time John felt as if all his faults were being laid bare beneath Sherlock's gaze. It was not a comfortable feeling, but he straightened his spine and allowed it.

After a moment, Sherlock let out an exasperated huff and disappeared back into the room without another word, leaving the door open. John took that as an invitation and followed him inside. 

He hadn't been inside Sherlock's room since he'd been poisoned. The bed had been completely stripped, including the mattress, leaving nothing but the bare wooden frame. _No wonder I always find him curled up on the end of my bed_ , he thought.

Sherlock sat back at his desk and reburied himself in the files he'd taken from John's room. John sat down on the edge of the bedframe and watched him for a moment, wondering what he could say to sort this out between them.

“I am sorry,” he said after several minutes of pointed silence.

“So you said,” bit off Sherlock, not looking up from the paperwork he was reading.

Right, of course it would take more than that. “I react badly to the suggestion of addiction,” he tried.

Sherlock sniffed. “That has become obvious,” he said.

John let out a sigh. “What I should have said is that just because I enjoy a game of cards sometimes, it doesn't mean I have a problem. I meant it when I said I haven't played since the Army, and I doubt I'll play again for a while now.” Not if it meant having to deal with this from Sherlock, anyway. It wasn't as if he couldn't get his thrills elsewhere, especially now they had a criminal mastermind trying to kill them. “And I really shouldn't have brought up the cocaine, that was uncalled for.”

Sherlock finally lowered the file and looked at him. “I was taking cocaine for nearly two years before I realised it was a problem,” he said. “And by then I didn't care.”

John nodded. “Harry still hasn't realised,” he said. “And it's been a lot longer than two years. But I'm not- I don't gamble, Sherlock. You'd have noticed by now if I did.”

Sherlock looked at him for another long few minutes. “You don't gamble with money,” he said as if he was correcting John. Before John could work out what that was meant to mean, Sherlock gave a nod. “Apology accepted,” he said, then moved immediately on to the next thing before John could even let out a breath of relief. “What did Mycroft say to you?”

John half-laughed. “I'm sure you can guess,” he said. “He wasn't very happy that I'd upset you.”

“I wasn't upset,” said Sherlock. “I just wasn't interested in continuing the conversation.”

“Of course,” agreed John. God forbid that Sherlock should admit to having a normal emotional reaction to an argument with his lover. 

“And it's none of Mycroft's business, anyway,” continued Sherlock. “Don't pay any attention to anything he says.”

“I didn't,” said John. “The only people whose opinions matter on this are you and me. He can stuff his threats.” 

“Threats?” repeated Sherlock. “What threats?”

John had a sudden premonition of the almighty row that would follow if he actually told Sherlock what Mycroft had said. “Oh, you know,” he said, waving a hand. “The usual 'if you hurt my brother I'll hurt you' stuff, only with a Mycroft twist.” Time to change the subject before Sherlock asked further questions. He glanced at the clock and winced. “I should really get some sleep.”

Sherlock followed his gaze to the clock. “You should,” he agreed. “You need to be well for tomorrow night.”

“Are you sleeping tonight?” asked John.

“Not right now,” said Sherlock. “Maybe later.”

John nodded and stood up, but didn't leave immediately. He didn't really want to go back into his room alone, and after a moment he plucked up the courage to ask, “Will you come and work in my room? I'll try not to disturb you.”

“You never disturb me,” said Sherlock. He looked at John for a long moment, then nodded as if to himself and started to bundle the papers together again. 

John smiled at him with gratitude and relief. “Thanks.”

They went back to John's room, where John climbed into bed, snuggling down as much as he could against his stack of pillows and watching as Sherlock sat back down in the middle of his piles of paper. Something in his chest settled into place. Everything was as it should be.

****

John woke up when Sherlock crawled into bed. He blinked his eyes open at him. “Sherlock?” he asked sleepily.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist. “Go back to sleep,” he said quietly.

“Mmm,” hummed John, curling in towards him. “G'night.”

There was silence for a handful of moments, during which John fell almost all the way back asleep, then Sherlock spoke in a whisper.

“Am I meant to apologise as well?” he asked.

John opened his eyes again. Sherlock was giving him the confused frown that meant he'd hit a wall in his knowledge. “I did upset you first,” he said, “or you wouldn't have been angry. It's generally acknowledged that maintaining a relationship requires apologies in such circumstances.”

John struggled to wake up enough to respond. “Do you feel sorry?” he asked eventually.

Sherlock thought about that. “Not really,” he said. “I was only trying to find out more about you.”

“Right,” said John, “well, don't apologise then. I don't want you saying things just because you think you should, or because you think I want to hear them. Only ever apologise to me when you mean it.”

Sherlock nodded, his arm tightening around John. “I suppose I could have broached the subject more carefully,” he said after another couple of minutes.

John huffed a laugh out. “It's possible,” he agreed. “That wouldn't be you, though.” He raised his head, leaning so that he could kiss the shoulder that was closest to him. “I usually like that you're single-minded about finding out about things you're interested in. It would be hypocritical of me to complain about you being the same when it comes to things about me.”

Sherlock smiled. “New things about you are always fascinating,” he said.

That sent a warm glow through John as his eyes slid shut again. He hoped Sherlock would continue to think that for a long time yet.

****

Sherlock was already awake when John opened his eyes the next morning, but he hadn't escaped the bed for his research yet. John gave him a sleepy smile.

“Morning,” he said, but was cut off before he could finish the word by a kiss. Sherlock moved in as close as he could to John, surrounding him with his body as they kissed, and John made a happy noise as they broke apart. 

“I could get used to waking up like this,” he said.

“You will,” said Sherlock. “Once this is all over, I intend to dedicate a significant amount of time to making sure this becomes habit.”

“Excellent,” said John, and caught Sherlock's mouth again.

They traded lazy kisses backwards and forwards, and John put his arms around Sherlock so that he could pull him in even closer, sliding his hands underneath the t-shirt he was to stroke over warm skin. Sherlock made a tiny noise in his throat as John's fingers ran up his spine and then down to the edge of his pyjama bottoms – no underwear, of course - and John took it as encouragement to slide underneath, fitting his hands over the shape of Sherlock's arse. He could feel Sherlock's erection pressing heavily against his leg, and the surge of want that rose up in him made it feel as if his skin was tingling with sensation.

“John,” said Sherlock, pulling away a couple of inches, which was far too far if John had any say in it. “Your breathing-”

“Is fine,” John interrupted, pulling Sherlock back for another kiss. “Besides, there's nothing wrong with your lungs.” He slid one hand around Sherlock's hip, tracing over the bony line of his pelvis to where his cock was trapped between them.

Sherlock gave up on any further protests when John wrapped his hand around his cock, letting out a breathy moan instead. He started kissing John again as if he would find the answers to the universe if he just kept at it, and John wrapped his other arm around his waist, keeping him close as he pulled at Sherlock's cock, heady with the sensation of finally feeling how it felt in his hand.

Sherlock was making tiny, breathless noises in his throat as he kissed John, and it was making John want to do everything to him, take him apart until he was nothing but shaking need and those noises. He twisted his wrist, flicking his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock made the best noise yet, a choked kind of whine, then tore himself away from John's mouth and let his head fall into the crook of his neck instead.

“God, John,” he gasped. “Just-yes, like that, keep going.” 

At the desperate tone of Sherlock's voice, John sped his hand up, ignoring the ache that was starting to burn in his wrist from the odd angle it was caught at. Sherlock sucked hard on John's neck, making John jump at the sudden sensation and then swear in a hoarse voice. He tightened his hand on Sherlock in retaliation, and Sherlock escalated to teeth pressed into John's skin.

Sherlock's back was arched like a bow, curled around John with every muscle taught and straining, and John wondered why he hadn't thought to get Sherlock's t-shirt off first, or even moved the covers so that he could see properly. _Soon_ , he thought. He'd get Sherlock naked and take him apart, watch every sensation and feeling pass over his face and shudder through his body.

“John,” gasped Sherlock. “John, please, just- yes. Yes.”

A second later, he froze completely, letting out an unintelligible sound that might have been John's name as he came into John's hand.

“Fuck,” he said in a distant voice a moment later, and John took that as a sign to let go of his cock. He wiped the come onto Sherlock's pyjamas and then ran his hand back around to his gorgeous arse again. 

“Fuck, John, that was-” Sherlock broke off and then collapsed sideways, leaving himself braced over John on one elbow. “That was amazing,” he said, then leaned down and kissed John, slower and softer than before, but with no less thoroughness.

“No problem,” said John, grinning with satisfaction. “Been wanting to do that for ages,” he added.

The smile Sherlock gave him was well worth the faint fear that letting out just how much he wanted Sherlock, and for how long, was only going to leave him vulnerable. He should be past that by now, after all – Sherlock had made it pretty clear that he felt at least partially the same. It was time to let go of his old concerns.

“There's rather a long list that I've been wanting to do to you,” said Sherlock, proving John's thought process. He put his hand on John's chest and paused for two of John's breaths, clearly listening to the workings of his lungs. “And I think you might finally be well enough for at least one of them,” he added.

He leaned down for one last kiss, then started to make his way slowly down John's body, kissing as he went, his mouth sucking at John's jaw, his neck, the gap between his collarbones, the scar on his shoulder, all the way down. John let out a groan as he realised where this was heading, and then concentrated hard on keeping his breathing steady. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to decide he wasn't well enough for this and stop. He was never going to want this to stop.

****

They waited until it was dark that evening before venturing out. Mycroft provided them with a car again, although they swapped it for a taxi after a half hour drive in the wrong direction, then got out of that and took the tube three stops, and finally took another taxi, until John wasn't entirely sure where they'd been, let alone how anyone would have been able to follow them.

They left the final taxi some distance from where Sherlock believed Moran's house was, and walked the rest of the way. Sherlock set a slow pace, slower than John's lungs needed, but he didn't bother protesting. The stars were spread out overhead, as visible as they ever were in the middle of London. He looked up at them and wondered if he'd be allowed to slip his hand into Sherlock's, or if that would get him a derisive glare.

“Nice night,” he said instead.

Sherlock glanced up at the sky and made a face. “Could do with some more cloud cover,” he said. “It's not exactly house-breaking weather.”

John blinked, because with all the transport-dodging it had slipped his mind what their plans were for the evening. He laughed. “You really know how to show someone a good time,” he said. “Illegal gambling, and now house-breaking. Such romance.”

Sherlock snorted. “I would have thought that romance was all about tailoring the experience to the person.”

It took John a moment to parse that. “Are you saying that I'm the type to find house-breaking romantic?”

“If you weren't, why on earth would I be interested in you?” asked Sherlock, sending John a sideways smirk.

“Oh god,” John realised. “This relationship is going to end with us both in jail.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft would never let that happen. It will be house arrest at most.”

John started to giggle. “We'll have those stupid ankle bracelet things,” he said. “Oh god, you'll go insane with boredom and blow up Baker Street.”

“It wouldn't be so bad if you were there too,” said Sherlock.

John couldn't hold in a pleased smile at that, which Sherlock returned for a split-second before looking around them. “The house is in the next road,” he said. “Wait here while I take a look.”

“Be careful,” said John. “All joking aside, I actually don't want either of us to get arrested.”

“Don't be ridiculous, John,” said Sherlock. “As if I would let that happen.”

He darted away, leaving John to stand in the shadow of someone's hedge and hope he didn't get spotted hanging around by some neighbourhood busybody and reported as being creepy.

Sherlock came back after about ten minutes. “It doesn't look as if anyone's in,” he said. “We should be able to get in around the back. Follow me, and look confident. If we look like we're meant to be there, people will be much less likely to pay attention to us.”

“Right,” said John with a nod. He followed Sherlock around the corner and down the drive of a large house with an ostentatious-looking turret on one corner. Sherlock ignored the front door in favour of going down the side of the house and around to the back.

He crouched down at the back door, examining the lock intently before he pulled something out of his pocket and started working at the lock. A minute crawled by, and John tried not to imagine all the eyes that could be watching them, wondering who those two strangers outside that nice Colonel Moran's house were, and picking up the phone to call 999. Or, of course, this might not even be his house, and they were about to burst in on some little old lady who'd decided to get an early night.

The door opened after only a couple of minutes, although it seemed as if it took far longer. The beeping of an alarm immediately started up and Sherlock darted inside, pulling out a torch to examine the panel. He frowned for a moment, then quickly tapped in a code. The beeping stopped.

“How on earth did you know the code?” John asked in a whisper, following Sherlock inside and shutting the door.

“It was obvious,” said Sherlock dismissively, already turning away. He played his torch over the hallway in front of them. It illuminated a picture of a man dressed in the uniform of a colonel, in front of an Army tent and with a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Ah,” breathed Sherlock.

“This is his house then,” said John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “We'll need to be very careful, John. If he is Moriarty's second-in-command, then I expect his home security will stretch to more than a cheap alarm and a rather flimsy lock.”

“Right,” said John, looking around and wondering what he should be looking for.

Sherlock let out a short sigh, then grabbed his hand. “Stay close to me. And don't touch anything.”

He pulled John through the house, pushing open doors to reveal a kitchen, a dining room, and a sitting room with a television that was big enough to need a whole wall to itself.

“He won't keep anything useful down here,” said Sherlock. “Not where casual visitors like Ron Adair could spot it.”

He started up the stairs with John behind him, but stopped abruptly about four steps up and bent to examine the step in front of him. “Don't step on that one,” he said when he straightened up. John looked down, but couldn't see anything different about it from any of the others.

“You're good at this,” he said. “Please don't tell me you've had practice being a cat burglar.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly. Not that I wouldn't make an excellent criminal, of course, but these skills are all rather rudimentary.”

“Of course,” muttered John. As if Sherlock would ever admit to being less than brilliant at something, even something criminal.

They reached the first floor and Sherlock cast about with his torch before resting it on another alarm keypad next to one of the doors.

“Ah,” he said quietly, and crossed to look at it. “Not set,” he said. “Interesting. Why have an alarm for a room, but then not set it?”

He pushed open the door, revealing a large room decorated with Indian-looking curios and an eclectic variety of swords, knives and other weapons.

“Moran's study,” Sherlock announced as if he'd personally put it there.

“Charming,” said John.

Sherlock pulled two pairs of plastic gloves out of his pocket and handed one set to John. “Go through the desk,” he said. “Make sure you keep everything in precisely the place it's in now – and check the drawers before opening them in case he's put a hair across to show signs of tampering.”

“People actually do that?” asked John, crossing carefully to the desk.

“Only the very paranoid,” said Sherlock, kneeling down to examine the safe that had been cemented into the fireplace. “I should imagine anyone working for a man like Moriarty would be extremely paranoid, don't you?”

“I'd imagine that paranoia would be the tip of the iceberg of their psychological problems,” said John, starting to examine the desk.

There was a thump from somewhere nearby, and both he and Sherlock froze. The thump came again, apparently from the wall behind one of the bookcases that framed the chimney breast.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked at it carefully, then turned his gaze to the carpet in front of it. “Ah, interesting,” he muttered, then stood and started taking the books off the shelves, carefully keeping them in order. There were more thumps as he did so.

“What is it?” asked John in a hissed whisper, but was ignored.

When half the shelf had been revealed, Sherlock paused and inspected the back of the shelf, then carefully pushed at it. There was a click and a section opened up, revealing a lock. Sherlock pulled his lockpicks out of his pocket again and set to work.

It took him slightly longer to pick than the back door had done, and as he worked the thumps continued sporadically. When he finally managed it, he glanced over his shoulder at John.

“Be ready,” he said. 

John settled his hand over the gun in his pocket and gave Sherlock a quick nod. Sherlock carefully pulled at the bookcase, which swung open like a door to reveal a tiny room not more than a couple of metres long and a metre wide. Standing in the middle of it was Mary.

“Oh,” she said, sounding as surprised as John was. “You're not dead.” She sounded relieved rather than disappointed, but there wasn't time for John to think about that before Sherlock let out a growl and lunged at her, grabbing her shoulders.

“Sherlock!” said John, hurrying forward and catching his shoulder. “Let her go!”

“She nearly killed you!” said Sherlock, shaking her rather viciously.

Mary's face went white. “What?” she asked.

“Let. Go,” said John with as much firmness as he could muster, pulling Sherlock back.

Sherlock let go, but didn't stop glaring at her. “Don't play innocent,” he said. “It really doesn't suit you.”

“I'm not,” she said. “I've never tried to hurt John.”

“No,” said Sherlock. “You tried to hurt me, and he was in the way. I'm not the only one who sleeps in my bed, you know.”

She blinked, then looked at John. “Oh, god,” she said, sounding far more miserable than John would have expected an attempted murderer to sound. “I'm so sorry.”

“Right,” said John. No matter how sad she sounded about having hurt John, she had tried to kill Sherlock. He wondered how miserable she'd be sounding now if she'd succeeded at that. “Well, sorry, but that's not particularly helpful, under the circumstances. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I've been here since I left Mycroft's house after- after,” said Mary. “The Colonel picked me up, and brought me straight here.”

“Hardly the most trusted of Moriarty's henchmen if they're locking you in,” sneered Sherlock.

“I'm not one of his henchmen!” said Mary.

“Of course not. You just infiltrated my brother's house on his orders, spent years spying for him, and then tried to kill me,” said Sherlock. “Obviously you're just an innocent bystander.”

“That's not-” Mary paused and took a deep breath. “Look, that's not how it was. I was already working for Mycroft when the Colonel approached me. He was nice then, friendly. He told me he worked for an agency that could help me find my daughter and let me know how she was doing.”

“Your daughter?” asked John. He'd had several long conversations with Mary, and she hadn't mentioned a daughter once.

“Yeah,” said Mary, and she let out a sigh. “I was 17, it was a mistake with a boy who didn't want anything to do with her, so I gave her up for adoption. That was fourteen years ago. I didn't have any idea where she had gone to, or what her life was like until the Colonel approached me. He gave me pictures of her, information on what kind of life she has – it was so good to finally know, you know?”

“And then he asked for the payment,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said Mary, swallowing. “It was only little stuff at first. How often Mycroft talked about you, if you ever came round, that sort of thing. I didn't really see the harm in it – his relationship with his family is hardly a state secret, right? And every time I gave them something, they gave me more about my daughter. He- they had the video of her school play, things like that. And it's not as if there was even that much to tell them, anyway. Mycroft didn't ever talk about you – not to me, anyway, and you hardly ever came around. The most I could give them was the transcript of a phone call in which you were mainly just rude about Mycroft's weight. There wasn't anything to it, and in return I finally got to find out about my daughter.”

“Until we came to stay,” said Sherlock. “And suddenly his little investment in you started paying dividends. I suppose they wanted everything, then.”

Mary nodded. She looked miserable and John could feel himself beginning to feel sorry for her. Moriarty and Moran had manipulated her extremely skilfully. “I didn't want to,” she said. “Especially not after I'd got to know you,” she said, looking over at John. Sherlock tensed and his glare ratcheted up a few notches. “But they pointed out how angry Mycroft would be if he found out what I'd be doing, and how much trouble I'd be in. I'm not stupid, I know roughly what his job is – I'd have been taken away somewhere and interrogated.”

“You still will be,” said Sherlock. “You can't imagine we're just going to shut this door on you again and leave you to tell Moran that we were here.”

Her eyes went wide. “You have to!” she said. “They've threatened my daughter – if they think I've escaped, or even that I've talked to you, they'll kill her. You know they'll do it.”

“Almost certainly,” agreed Sherlock. “Not my problem, though.”

“Sherlock!” said John. “At least try to have a heart.”

Sherlock scowled. “John, she hasn't even seen this daughter since she was a baby.”

“As if that mattered!” exclaimed Mary before John could work out how to explain parental love to Sherlock. “God, how are you so....so emotionally dysfunctional?!”

“Harsh words from a would-be murderer,” said Sherlock.

“Stop,” said John firmly. “This is getting us nowhere, and we can't count on Moran staying away forever.”

Sherlock took a breath. “Right,” he said. “Mary, you are coming with us. There is no negotiation over this.”

“I'll fight you,” she said fiercely. “I can't let anything happen to Hayley.”

Sherlock sighed. “Oh, honestly,” he muttered.

“It's fine,” interrupted John. “I'm sure Mycroft can get her and her family to safety – you know where they live, right?”

Mary nodded uncertainly. “Yes, but- well. That'll disrupt her life completely, take her away from her friends-”

“And if she stays where she is, Moriarty will keep using her to keep you under his control,” interrupted Sherlock. “Sooner or later he will ask you to do something you either refuse to do, or fail at, and then her life will be more than disrupted. Honestly, how do you think this is going to end? Asking for Mycroft's help is your only way out.”

Mary looked torn, running her hands through her lank hair. John wondered how much time she'd spent in the hidden cupboard since she'd arrived in the house. She certainly didn't look as if she'd changed clothes at all. “I suppose you're right,” she said in a wavering voice. “I just- I kept hoping that it would only be one more thing, and then it would all be over.”

“Naive of you,” said Sherlock, turning away, back to the safe. “John, keep on at the desk.”

“There's nothing in it,” said Mary. “I mean, nothing that will help you. All the stuff you'd want is in this safe,” she said, stepping out of the hidden room so that they could see the safe behind her, set into the wall.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, pushing her aside so that he could bend down to it.

John didn't bother going back to the desk. He looked Mary over carefully, looking for signs that she was injured in some way more than just having been locked up for too long.

“I'm fine,” she said when she noticed. “It's been a bit boring, really.”

“There are bruises on your wrist,” John pointed out in a neutral tone.

Mary glanced down at them. “Oh, that's just – the first time he went out, I set the alarm off by moving about too much, and he was annoyed about it. It's nothing, really.”

“I told you it was strange that the alarm wasn't set,” said Sherlock without turning away from the safe.

John ignored him. “You'll be okay now,” he said to Mary. “Mycroft will make sure you're kept safe from them.”

“Safe from _them_ , sure,” said Mary. “But not safe from him. Or the government.” She looked nervous at the prospect, which was probably justified. John didn't hold any delusions that Mycroft's particular branch of the government was very friendly towards spies.

“I'm sure it'll be fine once you've explained,” said John, hoping he wasn't lying to her. She really looked as if she needed a bath and a decent meal and the chance to be somewhere safe for a bit.

Sherlock let out a satisfied noise and swung the safe door open, revealing a pile of paperwork. “Excellent,” he said, getting out his phone and starting to work through them, photographing as he went.

“'You're not dead,'” he said suddenly after a few pages. “That was what you said when you saw me.”

“Well, yes,” said Mary. “The last time I saw you was just before I tried to kill you.”

“So Moran didn't tell you that you'd failed?” said Sherlock, still intent on the safe.

“I don't think they know,” said Mary. “I heard Moran on the phone to Moriarty talking about it this afternoon. They haven't seen you, and they don't have a spy at Mycroft's any more. Moran was saying that they couldn't know if you were alive or dead until they actually saw you – he thought Mycroft might cover up your death in order to keep them chasing after nothing. He said that if they don't get confirmation either way, they should play it safe and go underground for a bit.”

Sherlock straightened from the safe and turned to stare at her. “Did he?” he breathed. “Interesting.” He paused for a long moment, clearly thinking. “Then they can't know that we were here tonight. We can't leave even the slightest clue.” He looked at John. “We'll have to make it look like she escaped herself.”

“Ah,” said John. “Right.” How on earth were they going to do that?

“I don't think-” started Mary.

“No one is interested in your opinion,” stated Sherlock. “John, lock me in here.”

“What?” asked John.

Sherlock sighed the impatient sigh that always preceded him repeating himself. “Lock me in here. I'll make it look as if she broke out.”

John didn't bother asking any more questions, although he could think of several. He swung the bookcase door shut on Sherlock, who had finished photographing the papers and was now putting them back exactly as he had found them.

“How on earth is he going to break out of there?” asked Mary. “I mean, I've been in there for days, and I couldn't see any way out.”

John shrugged. “He'll work it out,” he said.

“Right,” said Mary, looking at the closed bookcase. There were a couple of thumping sounds from behind it. “So, uh,” she said after an awkward moment. “You were in his bed?”

John wasn't sure how to react to that. Was she asking if he and Sherlock were shagging, or was she asking about the damage she had done to him with the chlorine? He didn't want to talk about either with her. Apart from anything else, this really wasn't the time or place for a heart-to-heart about his love-life. “Yeah,” he said shortly.

“Right,” she said. “Um. Did you-were you badly hurt?”

So she was trying to find out how close to being a murderer she had come. John remembered what it had felt like to be unable to suck in oxygen and how tightly Sherlock had gripped at his shoulders, the note of desperation in his voice as he'd urged John to keep breathing while the edges of John's vision had dimmed and the burning pain in his chest had threatened to blank out the whole of the rest of the world. He didn't feel like sharing any of that with her.

“I was lucky that Sherlock responded quickly,” he said instead. The thumping from the hidden alcove stopped, and was replaced with a scraping noise.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, god, John, I am so sorry. I didn't- If I'd known you were going to sleep there, I'd never have done it.”

“But Sherlock was fair game?” asked John.

Mary's face twisted unhappily. “Well, no, but – they said it was do this, or they'd kill Hayley, and Sherlock's always been a bastard to me. They didn't say it would kill him, not until afterwards. They just said it was a surprise for him.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh. “You couldn't have guessed what sort of 'surprise' it was?”

“I- Well,” said Mary, still looking miserable. “I didn't want to think about it too much. I wanted Hayley to be safe.”

John let out a long breath. “She will be, now. But it will be thanks to Sherlock, and Mycroft. If you'd actually managed to kill one of us-”

There was a loud splintering sound, then a crash that sent the bookcase flying open. Sherlock smirked from behind it. “Child's play,” he said. “Really, I don't know why you've stayed in there.”

Mary glared at him.

John cleared his throat. “Shall we get out of here, then?” he asked.

“We'll need to get away quickly,” said Sherlock. “He won't find it believable that she was able to disable his alarm, so I'll reset it, then we'll set it off leaving. We need to be long gone before he gets back here to deal with it.”

“Right,” nodded John.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “There may be some running,” he warned.

John set his hand on the centre of his chest and felt the quality of his breathing for a moment. It sounded a bit rough, but it was mostly fine. Besides, he was sick of having to pander to it; he was done with all this endless recovery. “I'll be fine,” he said.

Sherlock regarded him intently for a moment, then nodded sharply. He turned to Mary. “Don't even think about trying to get away from us,” he said.

“I wouldn't!” she said. “You're my best hope for Hayley now, after all.”

Sherlock made a noise that said everything he thought about Mary's devotion to Hayley. He led the way back downstairs through the dark house, making Mary step on the fifth step while he and John both hopped over it.

At the back door, he paused again, looking them over.

“John, go down to the end of the drive and wait for us,” he said. “Text me when the road is clear.”

John nodded and slipped out the back door, shutting it behind him so that Sherlock could reset the alarm. He kept in the shadow of the hedge as he went back down the side of the house, wondering if it was a good idea to leave Sherlock alone with Mary. He supposed that as long as they needed the information she had about Moran and Moriarty, Sherlock wouldn't do too much to her.

When he reached the road, there was no one about but a late-night dog-walker. He waited until she had turned the corner, then texted Sherlock.

_All clear._

A half-minute passed, then there were feet pounding down the drive.

“Go left,” Sherlock hissed at John, and John turned to run down the pavement, Sherlock and Mary not far behind him – not that it took long for Sherlock to overtake him, the long-legged bastard. They turned down the first road they came to just as the house alarm went off. Sherlock slowed their pace to a fast walk and they took several more twists and turns until John couldn't hear the alarm.

Sherlock paused at the entrance to a park. “I think we're away,” he said.

“Great,” said John. “Another crime successfully committed in the name of justice.”

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment, then his face broke into a grin. “Fun, wasn't it?” he asked, then crowded close to John before he could respond. For a moment, John thought that Sherlock was going to kiss him, but instead he put his hand on John's chest, and frowned slightly.

John let out a long sigh that caught raggedly in his chest. “I'm fine,” he said.

“You're not,” corrected Sherlock. “You're not as bad as the other night, though. You went an awful grey colour then.”

“God,” said Mary in a distressed voice. “I'm so sorry, John.”

John glanced at her, and Sherlock took advantage of his distraction to press a quick kiss to his lips. “One of Mycroft's cars will be waiting for us three streets away,” he said. “Shall we?”

“It does seem as if the date's over, Casanova,” said John.

Sherlock grinned and took John's hand as he stepped away, then sent Mary a glare that carried more than a hint of smugness and which John was pretty sure he wasn't meant to see. John suppressed an eyeroll, wondering how he'd ended up with a boyfriend who could be both a genius and yet also so childish.

Boyfriend. Now that was a very odd thought.

****

The look on Mycroft's face when they arrived back at his house with Mary was chilling.

“I've brought you a present,” said Sherlock.

“I can see that,” said Mycroft in a deadly voice. “Given that the last present you gave me was socks, I'd say you've rather surpassed yourself.”

“Mycroft,” said Mary, “please let me explain-”

“I think,” interrupted Mycroft, “under the circumstances, it would be best if you addressed me as Mr. Holmes. You did betray my trust and attempt to murder my brother, after all.”

“I really am sorry about that,” said Mary. “I'll tell you everything, I promise, but first you have to get my daughter to safety. Please.”

“Daughter,” repeated Mycroft in tones of disdain.

“Moriarty has been using her as a sort of hostage,” said John. “When he finds out Mary's gone, he'll kill her.”

“I see,” asked Mycroft. “And how is that my concern?” If John had thought Sherlock sounded heartless earlier, he had nothing on how cold Mycroft sounded.

John gaped at him. “Because she's a harmless little girl who doesn't deserve it?” he asked. “Christ, show some compassion!”

“Compassion is a waste of time, and generally results in a weakening of your position,” said Mycroft.

“You'll do it because if you don't, I won't say a single word,” said Mary. “No matter what you do to me, I'll keep quiet about all of it. If she's safe, though, I'll tell you everything – everything Moriarty and Moran discussed when I was less than the thickness of a wall away.”

“Don't hinder my investigation out of pique, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft regarded Mary for a long moment, then abruptly nodded and pulled out his mobile phone. He dialled a number. “Good evening. I need you to arrange to take someone into safe-keeping.” He handed the phone to Mary. “Give her the details.”

Sherlock turned to John as Mary started to give Hayley's name and address down the phone. “You should go to bed,” he said.

John glared at him. “Stop fussing. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine,” corrected Sherlock. “You haven't strained yourself, true, but your body is obviously exhausted and needs rest. I'm likely to be up all night, getting all the information I can from Mary, but there's no need for you to sit in.”

John felt suspicion rise up in his chest. “What are you going to do to her?”

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. “Nothing you'd object to, but it is essential that I get all the details as accurately as she's able to recall them. It will be a long process.”

John thought about staying up all night while Sherlock and Mycroft asked what were likely to be an endless series of incredibly repetitive questions. He was feeling pretty done in – maybe bed was the best idea. He wanted to be able to keep up with whatever Sherlock decided they needed to do tomorrow, after all.

He looked at Mary, who had handed the phone back to Mycroft and was now looking almost as tired as he felt. “Fine,” he said. “On one condition – you give her a meal first.”

“Oh, honestly, John,” started Sherlock, and John cut through him.

“Look at her – she's clearly been mistreated over the last couple of weeks. She needs some decent food. Besides, she'll be more likely to remember accurately if you boost her energy levels.”

Sherlock eyed him for a moment, then leaned forward to kiss his forehead in a curiously tender gesture. “Only you would care that much about the welfare of someone who nearly killed you,” he said, and if his tone was as exasperated as it was fond, John couldn't find it in himself to particularly care. “Very well, we'll feed her.”

“Then I'll go to bed,” said John. “You'll come up when you've finished?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock. He kissed John again, this time on the lips. “Good night.”

“Night,” said John, kissing him back, then nodded at Mycroft, who was regarding them with a worryingly satisfied expression, and headed upstairs.

****

He was woken rather earlier than he expected the next morning by Sherlock crawling into bed with him and kissing him until he blinked open his eyes.

“Morning,” he managed. Sherlock hummed in response, and kissed him again. “How did it go with Mary?” asked John, around kisses.

“I'll tell you all the details in a minute,” said Sherlock, running his hands down John's body and then under his t-shirt to smooth over his skin. “Well, maybe longer than a minute,” he amended.

John laughed and gave in to him, more than willing to put off talking about criminal masterminds in favour of something that was a lot more fun.

It was more like an hour than a minute before they found the time to talk about what Sherlock had found out from Mary.

“The information she has is largely snippets and clues rather than anything complete,” said Sherlock. He was lying flat on his back with John cradled in close to his chest while one hand gently rubbed over John's back. “However, combined with the papers I photographed from his safe, I should, with some time to put it all together, be able to uncover most of Moriarty's web and provide the police with the evidence necessary to move on it.”

“That's excellent news,” said John.

“Not entirely,” said Sherlock but he didn't elaborate on that. Instead, he said, “By the way, Mary Morstan was seen boarding a Eurostar train for Brussels about an hour ago. In about seven hours, she will be killed there in what will appear to the police to be a traffic collision, but which will obviously have been arranged by MI5 to anyone more observant.”

“You're hoping Moriarty will assume that she went on the run, and then Mycroft had her killed?” asked John. “But what about her daughter? Surely Moriarty knows she wouldn't just abandon her.”

“Does he?” asked Sherlock. “Do you really think he's the type to understand giving up your freedom for someone you've only met once? If we can call giving birth to a baby 'meeting' it.”

There was a tone in his voice that John recognised. He sighed and smoothed his hand over Sherlock's shoulder. “You don't understand it either, do you?” he asked.

Sherlock scowled. “Caring for someone you don't even know is completely illogical.” He turned over suddenly, pinning John beneath him, and looked down at John with an intense expression. “I care for you _because_ I know you,” he said. “I know you almost as well as I've ever known anyone, and yet there are still things I want to find out. It makes you familiar and fascinating at the same time. I am not sure yet where the boundaries are on what I would sacrifice for the sake of your safety, but I know I would do almost anything for you, certainly as much as Mary has been prepared to do for her daughter. To do those things for a stranger, though, it doesn't make any sense.”

John blinked up at him, all his intentions to try and explain Mary's actions swept away by the realisation that Sherlock had just said he'd spy and murder for him, if need be. The inside of his mouth was dry and he put his hand in Sherlock's hair to pull him down into a kiss, feeling rather overwhelmed by the whole thing. He wondered if he'd be able to cope with the reality of Sherlock actually wanting this with him better once they'd been together a while, but he couldn't imagine that. He had a feeling it was always going to seem like a miracle.

“You must know that most parents would do as much for their children,” he managed, once the kissing had calmed down into Sherlock curled around him, a hand running through his hair.

“Most parents actually know their children,” Sherlock pointed out.

“It's not about knowing them – or, at least, not just about that,” said John.

Sherlock made a grumbling noise. “Doesn't make any sense,” he muttered.

John gave up. If Sherlock had managed to make it this far through life without understanding it, he wasn't going to be able to explain in a couple of minutes now. He turned back to the original conversation. “So, Moriarty will think Mary's cut and run, then been killed by Mycroft. So he won't know you have the information you have, and that'll give you the chance to uncover his organisation and take it apart?”

“Hopefully,” said Sherlock. He was silent for a moment, then added, “There's another problem, though. The conversation Mary overheard between Moran and Moriarty about whether or not I'm alive or dead made it clear that if they don't get clear confirmation that I'm dead, they will assume that I'm still seeking to bring them down. They already have plans in place that would send large parts of their organisation undercover and shut other parts down entirely, or move them abroad for a few years. The information we have at the moment will be worthless. And,” he added as if it was an afterthought, “they'll probably try and kill me again.”

John felt his grip on Sherlock tighten. He really didn't want to find out what other plans Moriarty might come up with in order to try and kill Sherlock while he was locked up inside Mycroft's house, not when he'd already displayed such an affection for bombs. “Right,” he said, hoping he sounded steadier than he felt. “So, what's the plan? Get Mycroft to spread the word that you're dead?”

Sherlock let out a sigh. “If only it were that simple,” he said. “They'll be looking for a trick – Mary's escape will have already made them suspicious. In order to make them believe in both her death and my own, we'll need to give them incontrovertible proof. Something they won't believe we'd fake.” He paused, and John began to have a bad feeling.

“What?” he asked.

“A grieving friend,” said Sherlock.

John felt himself freeze as the implications of that sank in. “Oh no,” he said, pulling away from Sherlock so that he could sit up and glare at him. “No, Sherlock. I'm not being left behind on this one – wherever you go, I go, remember?”

Sherlock sat up as well, reaching out for John's shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I don't want to do this any more than you do, but we need him convinced. He needs to see proof that I'm gone, and the only proof we can offer him is grief.”

“Use Mycroft's grief, then,” said John.

Sherlock let out a snort. “As if he'd ever show any. Moriarty must know enough about him by now to know that any actual signs of grief would be unlikely, and that he is an extremely accomplished actor. He wouldn't believe any of it. You, though. He's met you and underestimated you once already. He wouldn't rate your acting skills highly enough to doubt you. He'd leave his organisation as it is, and I'd be able to infiltrate it and get all the-”

“No,” interrupted John. “No, Sherlock, we're not doing it! I'm not sitting around pretending to cry while you put your life in that much danger!”

Sherlock clutched tighter at John's shoulders. “John, it's the plan that has the best chance of success. Which isn't to say it's not still a gamble, but it's the best option open to us right now.”

“No, it bloody isn't,” said John. “Nothing that involves us being apart is the best option. Why don't you get Mycroft to claim we're both dead?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if that wouldn't be incredibly obvious,” he said. “We need to play on the fact that Moriarty knows we wouldn't willingly split up-”

“No, you need to remember that we're not splitting up,” said John, pushing the duvet to one side and getting out of bed. “I'm not negotiating on this one, Sherlock. Whatever happens, we're facing it together.”

He stalked off to the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to collapse back onto the bed with a sigh. John ignored his melodrama – he could be as dramatic as he liked, as long as John was with him to see it. There was no way they were splitting up.

****

Sherlock spent most of the morning going over the photos of the papers he'd taken at Moran's, starting to piece together Moriarty's organisation. He did it in complete silence, ignoring John's offers of tea, but John couldn't tell if that was because he was sulking or because he was completely focused on what he was doing.

John went down to lunch alone and found a man in the kitchen, inspecting Mycroft's perfectly arranged fruit bowl. John hadn't yet been able to bring himself to ruin the carefully balanced symmetry of it by actually eating any of the fruit, and it looked like the man was having the same dilemma. 

He looked up and smiled when he saw John. “Hello,” he said. “You're looking much better.” John blinked, and suddenly realised that he was the doctor who had treated him when he'd been gassed. He'd been a little more concerned with getting oxygen into his system than remembering faces then, of course.

“Oh,” he said, holding his hand out. “I owe you my life.”

The man gave a little laugh as he shook John's hand. “Just my job. I'm Ben.”

“I'm very grateful you were here to do it,” said John. “Thank you.”

Ben gave an awkward shrug and turned back to the fruit bowl. “Mr. Holmes told me to help myself to food while I was here, but I'm a bit wary of these,” he said. “The apples look as if they've been polished.”

“They might well have been,” said John, turning to the fridge. “Mycroft probably does it as a stress-relieving exercise.”

Ben let out an amused sound that was not quite a laugh, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to laugh at Mycroft's expense.

“I was going to make myself a sandwich,” said John. “Want one?”

Ben took him up on the offer. They talked about how John was recovering, and then about medicine in more general terms, although Ben was very careful not to give any details away about exactly where he was employed or who his usual patients were. John wondered what kind of payroll you had to be on to be the doctor that Mycroft Holmes called in an emergency, and then how many layers of security you had to go through. It seemed pretty unlikely that Ben was anything like his real name.

“If I ask why you're here, am I going to get a straight answer?” he asked.

Ben tipped his head to one side. “I was delivering a fresh canister of oxygen,” he said, nodding over to where one stood in the corner.

“Right,” said John, glancing at it for a moment before turning his attention back to Ben. “Except I don't really need any more oxygen, and that's not a job you need a doctor to do anyway.”

Ben just smiled. “I had a spare hour,” he said. “And Mr. Holmes did offer me lunch for my trouble.”

So basically, John wasn't getting a straight answer on that one.

Ten minutes later, Ben left and John went back upstairs. In his absence, Sherlock had taken over one of the walls to create a massive, intricate web of scraps of paper covered in names, locations, lists of crimes and other notes that John couldn't make head nor tail of. In order to make more space, he had taken down the alarming portrait of a Holmes ancestor, which John very much approved of. He was a bit sick of having her glaring down at him as he tried to sleep.

John sat on the bed and watched Sherlock work for a bit, not wanting to interrupt him. Eventually he found a book to read, although he didn't take in much of it. His mind was too busy desperately trying to come up with a good alternative to letting Sherlock rush off into danger alone.

It was about an hour later that Sherlock finally pulled his attention away from his display enough to speak. “Moran's importance to Moriarty is becoming rather obvious from these documents,” he said, as if continuing a conversation rather than breaking an hours-long silence.

“How so?” asked John, deciding to take it as an offer of a truce.

Sherlock spun on his heel so that he could look at John. “Moriarty is unquestionably the leader – the mastermind,” he said. “He's the genius behind all their schemes, but he's not what you might call a people-person.”

John snorted. “Yeah, I got that one just from meeting him, thanks.”

Sherlock nodded. “An organisation this complex requires absolute loyalty, especially in the upper circles. They're all absolutely terrified of Moriarty – with good reason – but that doesn't necessarily inspire loyalty. Moran is there to present a more likeable face at the top of the pyramid. He does most of the actual interacting with those lower down, giving them orders, listening to reports, all that sort of thing. He's generally well-liked – people want to please him, whereas they just want to avoid angering Moriarty. It's the carrot and the stick.”

“So, if Moran was gone – in prison or whatever,” said John. “Moriarty would lose control of his organisation?”

“Not completely,” said Sherlock, “but he would have a less secure grip. He would need to spend more time on keeping everyone in line, and so would have less time to spend coming up with insane schemes and following his own agenda. He needs Moran.”

John nodded. “So, is that where we're starting? Get enough on Moran to get him arrested so that Moriarty's control wobbles?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “If we show our hand like that, Moriarty will disappear. We need to take the whole organisation at once.”

There was a tap on the door frame and Mycroft entered without waiting for a response. “Good afternoon,” he said, nodding to them both with a little smirk that made John's skin itch. The smirk fell off his face when he saw his wall. “Oh, Sherlock,” he said with faint disappointment. “Did you have to?”

Sherlock glowered at him. “What do you want?”

“I merely thought John would be interested to hear that Mary, her daughter, and her daughter's adoptive family have all been taken successfully to a safehouse, and that they should be secure from now on,” said Mycroft.

“They've been taken to the same safehouse?” asked John. “She's going to get to meet her daughter?”

Mycroft gave him a look as if he couldn't understand why that would be important. “I'd presume so.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Such a sentimentalist, Mycroft,” he said. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. “Oh, don't give me that,” said Sherlock. “Do you think I can't tell when you've done something like that deliberately? Reuniting mother and child as, what? An apology for not noticing that she was being coerced? Ridiculous.”

Mycroft looked as if he was contemplating cracking his brother over the head with whatever came to hand first. Sherlock was probably lucky that he didn't carry his umbrella around the house with him.

John cleared his throat. “I think it's rather kind, actually,” he said. “Seems as if Mary could do with something nice happening to her.”

Sherlock stared at him. “She nearly killed you!” he exclaimed.

John shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “That was Moriarty. She was merely caught up in his net – she was as much a victim of that plot as I was.”

“Oh, good god,” muttered Sherlock, slumping back down in the desk chair. “Do you really have to be so endlessly kind, John?”

John blinked at him. He couldn't imagine ever describing himself as 'endlessly kind'.

Mycroft gave a dry laugh. “It works in your favour, Sherlock. If he was any less kind, he would not make so many allowances for you.”

He left before John could find a response to that, leaving Sherlock scowling at the paper-covered desk.

“Funny,” said John after a moment. “I thought he thought I put up with you because I'm an idiot.”

“He does,” said Sherlock. “He thinks kindness is akin to idiocy.”

“Oh,” said John, glancing after Mycroft. “When I first met him, he told me that bravery was another way to say stupidity.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “He tends to equate almost all the character traits he doesn't possess with stupidity. He's wrong, of course. Your kindness, your bravery and your occasional moments of idiocy are all quite separate from each other.”

Oh good, another of Sherlock's compliments disguised as an insult. “Thanks,” said John. “I have to say, your version of bravery seems to involve a fair amount of idiocy.”

Sherlock gave him an affronted look. 

“Secret meetings with criminal masterminds in pools?” John reminded him. “Following a serial killer to an empty building and letting him talk you into trying to poison yourself?”

Sherlock made an irritated noise, then turned back to his work without a response, which was as good as admitting John was right. John smiled to himself and settled back into his book.

****

Mycroft wasn't back for dinner and Sherlock was so deeply immersed in his work that the mention of food only merited a scowl, so John ate alone, although he took a sandwich back up with him to put by Sherlock's elbow.

“I'm not kissing you again until you've eaten it,” he said when Sherlock ignored it. 

The sandwich was gone within ten minutes. John rewarded Sherlock with a nice long kiss. Sherlock allowed himself to be distracted from his work long enough to pull John down into the chair with him, holding him close and engaging in several minutes of thorough exploration of John's mouth.

Just as John was thinking about dragging Sherlock over to the bed, Sherlock pulled back, although not without reluctance. “I need to keep on at this,” he said. “The quicker it's done, the sooner we can go home, and I can have you in my bed.”

John felt a shiver go down his spine at the thought and he nodded. “I know,” he said, pressed another kiss to Sherlock's lips before standing up. “If there's anything I can do to help,” he offered.

Sherlock shook his head. “I need to put this all together,” he said, gesturing at the wall. “It's not something you can help with.”

Not something John was clever enough to help with he meant, but John appreciated that he didn't actually say it. He picked up the empty plate instead. “I'll take this down then.”

He took it down to the kitchen, but didn't go straight back upstairs. Now that he was healing up, being trapped in the same room all day every day was starting to wear on his nerves, even if it was in Sherlock's company. He spent some time wandering through Mycroft's house, trying not to feel like a trespasser. It was big enough to at least stretch his legs, although he couldn't help thinking of the proximity of Regent's Park to Baker Street with longing. A nice evening ramble through the park would be lovely right now. He wondered how much longer they'd be trapped in hiding before they could get back to their lives.

He wandered along the corridor his and Sherlock's rooms were on, glancing out of the windows as he went. Mycroft's house was down a private cul-de-sac and there wasn't much to see past the wall that bounded his property other than a couple of other large houses. John could see a black car with tinted windows parked in front of Mycroft's front gate and wondered if his security were deliberately being that obvious. Then he wondered how much it was costing the tax payers to keep him and Sherlock safe at the moment and felt a bit guilty. Well, it would be for the national benefit if they could take Moriarty down, he supposed.

There was a whine and a sharp crack as something hit the glass but didn't break it, and John found himself automatically falling to the floor before he could even register what was happening. There was another crack and the window shattered, sending glass shards crashing over him as he covered his face, finally realising that he was being shot at. Several more bullets hit the wall, then the door to his bedroom slammed open and Sherlock appeared in the doorway, looking panic-stricken.

John was struck by sudden, blinding terror. “Get down, idiot!” he shouted.

Sherlock threw himself to the floor, but didn't move back out of the way like a sensible person would have. “John!” he said in a fierce voice. “Say you're okay!”

“I'm fine,” said John as more bullets sped over his head. “Jesus Christ!”

The shooting stopped as abruptly as it had started and he was aware of shouts coming from outside. Mycroft's security must have finally pulled their fingers out. John stayed down where he was and glared at Sherlock when he tried to get up. 

“Wait!” he ordered, and for once Sherlock actually listened to him, resettling down on the carpet with an irritated scowl.

Although John knew neither of them had been shot, it was hard to convince himself that Sherlock was okay without running his hands over him to make sure. He looked horribly pale and couldn't seem to take his eyes off John, his gaze darting up and down his body as if finding it equally hard to believe that they had both survived unscathed.

“I'm fine,” said John again. “It's okay, Sherlock. I'm not hurt.”

There were running footsteps up the stairs, then a handful of Mycroft's men appeared. “Are you both okay?” asked one of them. The others fanned out to the windows, looking outside before pulling the curtains shut. John took this as a sign that it was safe to sit up, although he wasn't sure his legs were steady enough to try standing just yet.

Sherlock apparently didn't have that problem. “Fine,” he said as he stood up, dusting off his trousers. “Have you caught the shooter?”

The security man hesitated and Sherlock let out a groan. “How are you all so incompetent?”

“Sherlock,” said John sharply. Sherlock's attention was immediately wrested away from the security man and back to John. He strode over to him, then fell to his knees beside him.

He took hold of John's face with hands that were shaking slightly. “You were nearly killed,” he said. “Again. This is getting too much, John.”

John took hold of his wrists, feeling the life pulsing through them and letting it steady him. “I'm fine,” he said. “The first shot was stopped by the glass.”

“All the shots should have been stopped by the glass,” said the security man, inspecting the ruins of the window. “It was bullet-proof.”

Sherlock glanced at the glass around them. “With the right kind of bullet, hitting precisely the same point with two bullets would have caused it to break.”

“Precisely the same place?” repeated John. “Sherlock, that's nearly impossible, even over a short distance.”

Sherlock nodded. “My research indicates that Moran might be talented enough for such a shot.”

“Christ,” said John, clutching tighter at Sherlock. “If my reflexes had been any slower-”

“I know,” said Sherlock in a voice that would have sounded steady to anyone who didn't know him well, but which John could hear all the repressed emotion in. “I am extremely glad that the Army taught you to duck and cover.”

“It's something you could stand to learn,” said John. “Who the hell runs towards gunfire? Jesus, Sherlock, you should have stayed safe in the bedroom.”

Sherlock snorted. “Cowering behind a wall while you were in danger? Give me some credit.” He pulled himself free of John's arms and stood, going over to the wall that was now studded with bullet holes. He pulled out a pocket-knife and dug a bullet out, examining it carefully.

The security man cleared his throat. “We need to get you to a safe location,” he said. “There may be another attempt.”

Sherlock ignored him. He walked back to John and held the bullet out for him to look at. “See?” he said. “An extremely specialised bullet. I should imagine the gun it came from is rather special as well.”

John looked at it. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“With all respect,” said the security man, speaking a bit louder, as if Sherlock was just deaf rather than ignoring him, “I need to get you somewhere safer.”

“I'm not leaving my work,” said Sherlock. “We'll be fine in the bedroom.”

The security man tried to argue, but Sherlock wasn't having it. The security man finally relented, although he insisted in closing the curtains in the bedroom before he would let either of them inside, even though it only looked out on the garden.

“Don't leave this room until I've come back,” he said, then finally left them alone.

Sherlock immediately pulled John onto the bed and wrapped himself around him. John could feel that he was still shaking, and held on just as tightly in return. If Sherlock had been the one in the corridor when the firing started, would he have been as quick to drop to the floor as John had been? It seemed unlikely given how long he stood in the doorway before John made him get down. He could be dead right now. The thought alone felt as if John had been shot, a cold shard of pain lancing straight through him.

“You have to stop doing this to me,” Sherlock said into John's neck in a muffled voice after few minutes had passed.

John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair. “I'll try to,” he said. “It's not actually by choice, you know.”

Sherlock let out a snort that showed exactly what he thought of that. John pressed a kiss against the top of his head.

“Trust me,” he said. “I really don't want anything to happen to me either. At least not until you've fulfilled your promise to have me in your bed back home.”

Sherlock smiled against John's neck, then lifted his head to look him in the eye. “That may take a while,” he said. “How about I give you a preview here for now?”

John grinned and pulled him down into a kiss that quickly turned hot and heavy.

John wasn't exactly a stranger to life-affirming, adrenalin-pumped, we-just-nearly-died sex but as usual, Sherlock managed to blow all his past experiences out of the water. He seemed completely fixated on checking over every inch of John to make sure he was in one piece, building the desire in John until he felt as if he was drowning in it, unable to form thoughts beyond 'yes, more, Sherlock'. When he finally came, it felt a little as if he was dying, sensation rushing through him like an avalanche while he clung to Sherlock's shoulders and shook with the force of it.

He barely had to touch Sherlock before he was coming too, then he collapsed down next to John, still clinging to him. He was very careful not to put any pressure on John's lungs though, despite how tightly he was pressed to him. When the rushing in John's ears had calmed enough for him to hear properly again, he could hear there was a rasp in his breathing that hadn't been there before.

He let out a snort that burned his lungs more than he wanted to admit. “That was probably a bit much, a bit soon,” he said. “Can't say I'm complaining, though. Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just made a humming noise and stroked his thumb over John's skin. John glanced at him to see that he was staring at John with an intense, serious expression that made John automatically reach out for him.

“We're both okay,” he reminded him.

“I know,” said Sherlock quietly.

There were several minutes of silence as John let post-coital relaxation roll through him and his breathing began to calm down again. Sherlock stayed exactly as he was and the expression on his face told John nothing about his thoughts, not that he ever really had much hope of working out what went through Sherlock's mind.

They were still lying like that, naked and wrapped around each other, when Mycroft entered the room without knocking. He took in their position with a raised eyebrow.

“I see my men were not lying when they said you were both fine,” he said.

Sherlock let out an outraged noise and sat up, dislodging the duvet covering them so that John had to hastily clutch at it to save his modesty. “Your men are incompetent idiots!” said Sherlock. “We came here because you said it would be safe, and this is the second murder attempt that has been close to successful.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “I apologise. Unfortunately, as much as you wish to pretend I am omnipotent, there are simply not enough men available to me to prevent all attacks, particularly not from someone as determined and intelligent as Moriarty.”

“I'm going to go talk to your men,” said Sherlock, climbing out of bed without any shame at his naked state and starting to pull his clothes back on.

“They are busy enough right now without you haranguing them,” said Mycroft.

“I'm not going to harangue them,” said Sherlock. John couldn't hold in a disbelieving snort. Sherlock glanced at him. “Well, not much,” he corrected. “I want to see the plans of their security and make sure they haven't left any obvious blind spots in place.”

“I'll come,” said John, sitting up.

Sherlock spun, still only in his trousers. “No,” he said. “You stay here. Right there. You need to let your lungs recover. Besides,” he added with a smirk, “I rather like the idea of having you waiting naked in bed for me.”

John immediately lay back down. He rather liked that idea as well.

Mycroft made an amused noise. “I should have known that once you succumbed to affection, you would embrace it whole-heartedly.”

Sherlock sent him a very black look as he put his shirt on. It only served to make Mycroft's smirk widen.

“Don't leave this room,” Sherlock said to John once he was fully dressed. “Don't go anywhere near the window. Don't let in anyone who isn't me.”

John rolled his eyes. “I think I'll be okay,” he said. “Unless Moriarty starts shelling the place, of course.”

Sherlock blinked as if he hadn't thought of that and turned to look at Mycroft, who sighed. “Sherlock, there is no way he would be able to get a gun large enough for that anywhere near this house.”

“That's presumably what you would have said about a sniper rifle earlier today,” said Sherlock. He darted to the bed and pressed a firm kiss against John's mouth, then strode out of the room. Mycroft gave John a very long-suffering look, and then followed his brother, pulling the door shut behind him. 

John stacked his pillows up to support his chest better, then reached for his book. It seemed likely that he would be waiting for a while. Sherlock could go on for a very long time once he got stuck into a good rant, and reviewing security procedures would probably take ages as well.

The excitement of the last hour, the exhaustion of trying to get his breathing back to normal, and the fact that he had already spent hours that day reading his book and was actually a bit bored of it, all combined to make John nod off before Sherlock got back. 

He half-woke when Sherlock slid into bed next to him, and managed to mumble his name.

“Sssh,” said Sherlock, moving close enough to gently kiss John's cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

John made an agreeing, grumbling sound, and fall back asleep.

*****

When he woke up the next morning, he was alone in the bed. He pulled himself upright and noticed a note lying on the pillow next to him. Dread sank into his stomach as he picked it up and read it.

_John,_

_It seems likely that you are going to be furious with me. Please allow yourself a few moments of rational thought before you descend into rage._

_I will have left Mycroft's house by the time you read this, and will be in hiding somewhere where I can work to bring Moriarty down without him realising I am still alive and working against him. This is by far the best chance we have of getting Moriarty and destroying his organisation before he manages a successful assassination. Both his attempts so far have come perilously close to killing you, and I cannot allow him a third try, not when there is an obvious solution in front of me. I would far rather have you hate me for going against your wishes than have you be dead._

_Mycroft has put in place all the necessary devices to convince Moriarty that I am dead, but the success of this plan will rest almost entirely on your acting ability. I hope you are not so angry with me that you will put my life in danger by not acting appropriately grief-stricken._

_John, you must see this is the only way. I hope you also know how important to me you are. I will be doing everything I can to keep you safe, and to be able to come back to you._

_Yours always,_

_Sherlock_

_P.S. It would be best if you burnt this after reading._

John crumpled the letter in his fist. “That fucking bastard! I'm going to kill him.”

He got out of bed, paused long enough to drag on a dressing gown, and then stormed downstairs, calling for Mycroft.

He stopped short when he got halfway down the stairs. Mycroft and Ben were in the hallway, talking quietly.

“Ah,” said Mycroft, turning to look up at John. “You're awake.”

“Where is he?” asked John. “Where did that bastard go?”

Mycroft's face twitched. “I realise that you are upset,” he said. “Grief is a funny thing. Please, come into my study and sit down. Ben, will you make us some tea?”

“Of course,” said Ben, and disappeared off towards the kitchen.

“Mycroft,” started John in a growl.

“In the study, please,” interrupted Mycroft, and swept into it without waiting for a response. John followed him, Sherlock's note still clenched in his hand. He was going to get Sherlock's location out of Mycroft, whatever it took, then he was going to go after him and beat the idea that he couldn't leave John behind into his thick skull.

Mycroft shut the door after John, and gestured at a chair. John ignored him. “Where did he go?” he asked. “I'm not-”

“You need to calm down,” Mycroft cut through. “Get some control of your emotional state.” John glared at him, but drew in a ragged breath and tried to force at least some of his anger down. “Good,” said Mycroft. “Now, think for a moment. The die is already cast. Sherlock has gone. Even I do not know exactly where, and I have no way of contacting him that wouldn't immediately put him in danger.”

“Oh god,” said John, as that sank in. He sat down. “That utter bastard. I told him he wasn't allowed to do this.”

“I also told him it was not the best course of action, but I'm afraid he has never been one for listening to other people's advice,” said Mycroft. “We have no choice now – we have to play along, or we will be exposing him to danger. He is outside of my protection now, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you what will happen if Moriarty suspects this is a trick.”

“Christ,” said John, feeling the dread sink further down into his stomach. “He'd hunt him down.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft. He let out a long sigh and leant back against his desk, crossing his arms. “This is the situation, then. We must both be completely convincing in our act that he is dead. We can't let our guard down even for a moment – you should presume that you are being watched at all times, even when you are alone, and that anyone could be a spy for Moriarty. We are the only two that know the full details of this, and we must ensure that we stay so. Even my people only have bits and pieces. Unless we are alone in this room, which is completely secure, we cannot let on for a moment that he is alive. Do you understand how important that is?”

John scowled at him. “There's no need to be so bloody patronising,” he said. “I get it. He's dead, I'm alone, and I can trust no one. You'll have to allow me to be furious at him first, though.”

“There is no time,” said Mycroft. “We need to move fast to protect him. If your anger is going to put this plan in danger-”

“It won't,” said John. Mycroft gave him a doubtful look, as if he wasn't sure that anyone who wasn't a Holmes could be trusted not to succumb to emotions. “It won't,” repeated John forcefully. “Do you really think I'll risk anything happening to him before I've had a chance to punch him?”

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgement of that. “Very well, then. The official story is that he was caught by the chlorine-laced sheets, and has been gravely ill ever since. Last night, the excitement of the shooting caused his condition to worsen and he passed away in the early hours of this morning.”

John flashed to Ben's visit yesterday, and the oxygen he didn't need. “You've been planning for this,” he realised. “A doctor visiting, bringing oxygen – you were laying the groundwork. He was planning this all along.” The thought caused a clench in his chest. Sherlock had deliberately gone behind his back to set this up despite their conversation yesterday morning.

Mycroft sighed. “John, I understand that you feel betrayed-”

“Do you?” asked John. “Do you really, Mycroft? Because I don't think you, or your brother, have any idea how normal people feel.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I told him that this was not a good idea, for all that it is the most logical way to evade Moriarty. He remained adamant that preventing further attempts on your life was worth it.”

 _I would far rather have you hate me for going against your wishes than have you be dead,_ thought John and he looked down at the note crumpled in his hand. He opened it up again.

“He left you a note,” said Mycroft, with surprise. “That's a rather sentimental risk. You are aware, I suppose, that it will need to be burnt.”

“Yeah, I got that,” said John shortly, rereading the thing. _I hope you also know how important to me you are._ That was extremely sentimental, for Sherlock. John realised, with a rush of nausea, that he'd written it because he wasn't sure he'd survive to see John again. “What are the chances of him being killed anyway?” he asked, and then abruptly wished he hadn't.

Mycroft didn't immediately start spouting facts and statistics like John feared he would. Instead, he was silent for a long moment, then let out a sigh. “Higher than I would like them to be.”

John nodded. There was silence for a few minutes as he stared at the note, trying to find a way to bring the whirling fear and anger in his stomach under control. Eventually, he stood up and crossed to the fireplace. There was a box of matches on the mantelpiece and he set the note alight then threw it into the grate, where it burnt brightly for a few seconds until it collapsed into embers.

“Right,” he said, turning to Mycroft and feeling himself straighten into military posture. “What now?”

“The coroner is due to arrive to pick up the body soon,” said Mycroft. “There is a body, one that looks enough like Sherlock to pass a quick examination by a stranger, but it would not stand up to much more than that. Ben is going to deal with that side of things, provide the death certificate and keep anyone from investigating too closely.” John briefly wondered where he had got a corpse that looked like Sherlock from, and then abruptly decided that he didn't want to know. “My assistant will arrange the funeral,” continued Mycroft, “which I imagine will be in a week or two. Will you read the eulogy?”

John stared at him. A funeral. A bloody eulogy! Christ, he hadn't thought that far ahead. “How long is this going to go on for?”

Mycroft's mouth twisted unhappily. “I can't say. Sherlock may be able to weave his net in a few weeks, but there are likely to be complications when dealing with someone like Moriarty. It could take months.”

“Months?” exclaimed John. How on earth was he meant to keep up a charade for that long? He thought about spending months not knowing where or how Sherlock was, trying to keep going with his life while Sherlock was in danger, and wondered if he'd even have to pretend that hard. “God,” he said, and slumped down on a chair, putting his head in his hands. “I really am going to fucking kill him,” he mumbled.

“That would make this whole thing rather pointless, don't you think?” said Mycroft.

There were footsteps outside, then a knock on the door. 

“Enter,” said Mycroft, and it was opened by a member of Mycroft's security.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is here, sir.”

“Send him in,” said Mycroft, giving John a significant look.

Lestrade came in before John had really had time to prepare himself. He had no idea how he was meant to be looking right now – should he be in floods of tears? No, he wasn't the type for that kind of grief. How had he reacted in Afghanistan, when someone he knew died? What had he done after the car crash that killed his mum? He pictured sitting in that awful hospital waiting room with Harry, then clenched his hands together and stared down at the carpet. That would have to do. 

“This better be bloody important,” said Lestrade. “Some of us do have work to get to, you know.” He took a step into the room, then frowned. “You okay, John?”

“I am afraid he is not,” said Mycroft before John could find a suitable answer to that. It was probably best to let Mycroft do the talking – he was bound to be much better at this than John. “I am sorry to have to tell you that my brother died in the early hours of this morning.”

“What?” asked Lestrade. “Sherlock? But-” He glanced at John, and John could see the moment that the information sank in. “Christ,” he said. “What happened?”

Something had drained from him and John felt like the worst person in the world to be doing this to him. He imagined that feeling was only going to get worse. “Moriarty,” he said, and he didn't have to put much effort into make his voice sound choked. “Moriarty happened.”

“My brother has been the subject of several assassination attempts since the incident at the swimming pool,” said Mycroft. “I'm afraid that despite the best attempts of my security, and various medical personnel, they were eventually successful.”

“Jesus,” said Lestrade. “That's-” He cut himself off and took a deep breath, and John saw his policeman persona click into place. “Have you any leads? Who's working the case? I can help them out.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Mycroft. “I have some of my people on it. I did not ask you to come here as a representative of the Metropolitan Police, but as my brother's friend.” He looked from Lestrade to John. “The two of you, and possibly Mrs. Hudson, are the three who cared for my brother most. I thought you deserved to be told in person.”

“Oh god,” realised John. “Mrs. Hudson.” She treated Sherlock like a badly-behaved son, and she'd already lost almost all the family she had. She was going to be devastated, and John was going to have to stand by and watch it, first-hand.

“I will send someone around to tell her,” said Mycroft.

John couldn't let a stranger take that blow for him, not when Mrs. Hudson deserved better. “No,” he said. “No, I'll do it. I should go back home now, anyway.” He looked at Mycroft. “There's no need to keep me locked away any longer, is there?” No one would be trying to kill him now, and if he was going to be the evidence that Sherlock was truly dead, then he'd have to be in plain sight.

“You are welcome to stay longer, if you wish,” said Mycroft.

John shook his head. “No thanks. I don't-” He couldn't really stand the idea of going back up to that bedroom where he and Sherlock had been together less than twelve hours ago, where Sherlock had come up with this plan and decided to ignore John's wishes entirely. Christ, he'd known he was going to do this last night – that's why he'd been in such a funny mood. He'd known that it was the last they'd see of each other for months, and that when he came back John was going to be furious with him.

The thought hurt. “I just want to go home,” he said quietly.

“I'll give you a lift,” said Lestrade. “You shouldn't have to tell Mrs. Hudson alone.”

Mycroft nodded. “I shall have your things sent over,” he said. “John, there is still the matter of the eulogy.”

John stared at him. He couldn't imagine getting up in front of everyone Sherlock knew and talking about him as if he was dead, when he knew he wasn't. “I don't-” he started, then hesitated. Would he have done it if Sherlock was truly dead? Mycroft was staring at him, and John knew he was trying to tell him that he had to, or risk exposing Sherlock, but John wasn't sure that he wouldn't expose him anyway. How could he write something that rang true when he was still so angry with the man?

“I'll do it,” said Lestrade. Both John and Mycroft turned to stare at him. “That is, if it would be okay,” he added. “I know I didn't know him as well as you did, but- well. Sometimes that's a good thing, at funerals. You need a bit of distance to be able to talk about someone in that kind of situation without going to pieces.”

“Perhaps,” said Mycroft, clearly not understanding that at all. John assumed that he'd never gone to pieces in his life.

“That would be great,” said John to Lestrade. “I don't think I could manage it.”

Lestrade nodded, then glanced at Mycroft. “You don't mind? You didn't want to do it?”

Mycroft shook his head. “The last thing my brother would have wanted would be for me to speak.”

 _Perhaps that's just why you should,_ thought John. It would serve Sherlock right if Mycroft was the one to stand up and talk about him, telling embarrassing stories of his childhood and talking about his career with faint distaste. 

“And you always paid so much attention to what he wanted,” he said.

Mycroft gave him a look that said he could read John's thoughts and that he wasn't impressed with the direction of them. “It seems appropriate to do so now,” he said. “After all, there is nothing else I can do for him.”

John took a breath, pressed his lips together, and nodded. Message received and understood: there was nothing else either of them could do for Sherlock now. He had backed them into a corner.

Lestrade put his hand on John's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Come on, mate,” he said in a sympathetic voice.

“I will let you know when we have a day for the funeral,” said Mycroft as John stood up.

“Thanks,” he said, not trusting himself to say anymore. He was acutely aware of his facial expressions, of how he was holding his hands, of the way his shoulders felt slumped. Was he believable as a grief-stricken man? Was he laying it on too thick? God, he was going to be second-guessing his every reaction from now on. He felt another hot surge of anger at Sherlock, and swallowed it down. He couldn't allow himself to give into that, not until he saw him again. After all, this might still fail. Sherlock might still end up dead for real.

“If something happens with- with Moriarty, please let me know,” he said to Mycroft, which was the closest he could get to what he really wanted to ask with Lestrade there.

Mycroft nodded. “Rest assured, I shall keep you informed, John.”

“Right. Good,” said John, then followed Lestrade out of the room.

****

Telling Mrs. Hudson was even more harrowing than John could have guessed. For a split-second, her face was perfectly blank, then it crumpled. “Oh,” she said, sounding helpless. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” said John.

She shook her head. “Oh, no, don't. It's- Oh, John. You poor thing, you must be-” She broke off without finishing that sentence, thankfully. “Sit down,” she said, flapping her hands vaguely at her sofa. “Sit down, both of you. What we need is a cup of tea – I'll put the kettle on.”

She darted off to the kitchen, where John could hear her muffled sobs. He sank down onto the sofa, resisting the urge to put his face in his hands again. God damn Sherlock for putting him in this position.

Lestrade sat down beside him. “If you wanted to escape,” he said, “I'm sure she'd understand.”

John thought about going upstairs, about how empty the flat was likely to be without Sherlock, and shook his head. Besides, leaving Mrs. Hudson right now felt like the coward's way out. She deserved better than that.

Tea was incredibly awkward. Mrs. Hudson kept starting to tell John bits of gossip that had happened while he and Sherlock had been away, then losing the thread mid-story and stuttering to a stop. Every so often she'd say something like, “Oh, the poor dear,” or, “He always took such risks,” and John would have to grit his teeth against the urge to tell her the truth in order to cut out the misery in her voice.

Lestrade was a godsend. He took care of replying to her gossip, keeping the conversation going so that John didn't have to do much more than sit there with his cup of tea, wondering where Sherlock was and if he'd remembered to eat or drink yet today without John there to nag him.

After about half an hour, he couldn't stand the worrying, sympathetic looks from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson anymore, or the thick atmosphere of grief, and he set his cup down. “I suppose I should go and put things to rights upstairs,” he said. “We haven't been there for weeks.”

“I've been up a couple of times to give it a quick dust,” said Mrs. Hudson. “And the windows are all replaced now, of course. I had them put in reinforced glass – it seemed a good idea, given how Sherlock treated the place.” She paused for a moment. “I suppose that was a waste of money now,” she added.

John had to swallow down a lump in his throat at the tone of her voice. “It was a good idea,” he said. “I always thought it was a miracle that none of his experiments had ever blown up.”

There was a tense moment of silence and he stood up, suddenly desperate to get out of there. “I'll be upstairs,” he said. “If you need anything, Mrs. Hudson-”

“Oh, don't worry about me, dear,” she said.

John gave her a nod and the best approximation of a smile that he could manage, and escaped. As he went up the stairs, he heard Mrs. Hudson say, “That poor man. He's going to take it hard – they were so close. I'm not sure what he'll do now.”

“We'll have to make sure he knows we're here if he needs us,” said Lestrade, and John had to rush up the last few steps to get away from their well-meaning sympathy. This had to be some sort of hell.

He sank down into his chair and spent a few minutes just listening to the sound of traffic outside and the almost unbearable silence from their flat. Well, here he was. Left behind with nothing to do but watch those around him grieve for a man who wasn't dead, while Sherlock took all the risks.

The clock ticked loudly in the silence, and John thought about how hard he was going to punch Sherlock when he saw him again.

****

Sherlock's funeral was better attended than John thought Sherlock probably expected. It seemed as if half of Scotland Yard were there, and they all felt they needed to shake John's hand and express their sympathy, even the ones that he knew hated Sherlock. He nodded his thanks, said as little as possible, and escaped as soon as he could.

He had nowhere to escape to, though. Baker Street was crammed with Sherlock's possessions, none of which John really felt like touching. He wondered if he should be doing something with them – packing them away or giving them to Mycroft to look after – but he couldn't really bring himself to be bothered. Once or twice, when he found himself particularly angry with Sherlock, he thought about throwing them all away, just to get back at him. He couldn't bear the thought of how empty Baker Street would be without all Sherlock's clutter though, and ended up leaving it all as it was.

Once or twice, when Mrs. Hudson came up for a cup of tea and to cluck over the state of the place, she mentioned sorting through Sherlock's things.

“I'll get to it,” said John in a tight voice and she sighed, and then nodded.

“I understand. You want to take some time before opening yourself up to all that. After my husband died, going through his things was the worst part. All those unexpected memories!”

Given how her husband had died, John hadn't known how to reply to that. She didn't seem to need or expect a response, though. He was finding that most people accepted silence as a normal response to grief and that he could get through most conversations without arousing any suspicions just by saying as little as possible.

It was incredibly difficult to be around people who thought Sherlock was dead, especially people who were intent on setting aside their own grief in order to help him deal with his. The only thing worse than that was sitting alone in the flat, thinking about the things he had intended to do with Sherlock once they were home, and wondering if he'd ever have the chance to do them now. Part of him was waiting for a summons to Mycroft's house, to be told that Sherlock had been killed after all. What would he do then? Would anyone notice if his faked grief became the real thing?

He took to wandering around London, taking the Tube to random stops and then walking aimlessly for an hour or two. Part of him was hoping he'd spot Sherlock somewhere, however unlikely it was that he'd run into one man in a city the size of London, or that he'd even recognise Sherlock behind whatever disguise he was using if he did. The rest of him was just bored out of his mind.

He was on his way back to Baker Street after one of these jaunts, slumped in a carriage on the Bakerloo line, when Moriarty found him.

“Hello, Johnny,” he said, sliding into the seat next to him.

John, who had been in a world of his own, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the one time he'd been able to persuade Sherlock to take the tube and how it had nearly ended in a fight, was startled out of his skin.

He sat bolt upright and stared at Moriarty's leering face, his hand automatically forming into a fist. Why the hell had he left his gun at home?

“I wouldn't do anything hasty, if I were you,” said Moriarty. “Well, not unless you enjoy blood and violence and screaming as much as I do.” He nodded to his left, and John followed his gaze to see three men, obviously thugs, standing next to an oblivious mother with two young children.

“You can't think threatening my life will stop me trying to kill you,” said John, his voice as tense and brittle as he felt.

“Silly boy,” tutted Moriarty. “It's not _your_ life I'm threatening. Those kiddies are sweet, aren't they? And look, there's more over there.” He gestured further down the carriage, but John didn't turn to look. Instead he glared at Moriarty and tried not to let fear take him over. This was it; this was when they'd see whether or not Moriarty had fallen for Sherlock's deception, and whether or not John's acting was up to his role in it.

“Right,” he said. “So, what? You're kidnapping me again? Hardly seems much point now.”

“Oh, kidnapping is so last month,” said Moriarty. “I just want a chat with you. A nice little chat between old friends.”

John clenched the edge of his seat with the hand furthest from Moriarty and spoke through gritted teeth. “A chat about what?”

“Well, Johnny, there's only really one thing we have in common, isn't there?” said Moriarty. “Sherlock, of course! I was so sad to hear about his death, you know. I thought he was good enough to avoid my little traps – how disappointing that he died so easily. You'll have to tell me all about it.”

John wanted to rip his smug face off. He could only imagine how much worse he'd feel if Sherlock really had died and tried to channel that feeling. He had to be completely convincing. “Why on earth should I tell you one word about it?”

Moriarty sighed. “That should be obvious,” he said. “How on earth did Sherlock put up with someone so slow? There are sixteen people in this carriage, not counting the two of us or my men. How many do you think they could kill in thirty seconds?”

John glanced around again at the mother and her children, the group of teenagers at the far end, the young couple arguing over a map, all of them completely oblivious to what Moriarty was saying. 

He took a deep breath and nodded curtly. “Fine, then,” he said. “Sherlock died three weeks ago this Sunday, at around two in the morning, of lung damage caused by chlorine poisoning.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “I don't want _facts_ , Johnny. I know all those. I want details – how did he die? Was he gasping for breath? Did he whimper? Did he cry? Did you cry? Oh, what am I saying, of course you did.”

John glared at Moriarty, wondering how he should answer that. He couldn't bring himself to talk about Sherlock's death, even hypothetically, but he knew he was going to have to find some words for it.

Moriarty let out a sigh. “Come on, tick tock,” he said. “I'm a busy man. You don't want people to start dying, do you?”

John gritted his teeth. “He was hooked up to oxygen,” he said, his mind flashing to patients he had had with respiratory disorders and trying to put Sherlock in their place. “He was unconscious at the time, and had been for a few hours. His breathing was very laboured, and then it stopped. What more do you want?”

Moriarty tipped his head to one side, his eyes glittering as he examined John. John felt horribly, acutely aware of the lie he was telling, as if it could be read off the surface of his mind. He kept his face as still as he could, glaring at Moriarty and wishing he could just kill him now so that Sherlock could come home and this whole thing could be over.

“He didn't say anything?” asked Moriarty. “No fatal last words?”

“No,” gritted out John. He remembered the story Mycroft had given him, about the shooting exasperating Sherlock's condition. “The last thing he said was hours before that, after the shooting. He was concerned about me – I was nearly hit, you know.”

“And what a shame that would have been,” said Moriarty without any sincerity. “You know, it seems strange to me that a man as perceptive as Sherlock would have gone to sleep on those sheets, and not noticed the smell of swimming pool on them. I didn't actually want to kill him, you know – not yet! I was counting on him to not be a complete idiot. He disappointed me.” He made an exaggerated sad face that John itched to punch. “I suppose he was one of the ordinary people after all.”

Ordinary was the very last thing Sherlock was. “He was very tired that night,” said John shortly. He didn't want to get too defensive, or tell the truth, which is that he'd thought the smell of chlorine was a PTSD symptom which he'd been trying to ignore. Sherlock wouldn't have thought like that. “He doesn't-” he stumbled over the tense, mentally cursing himself. “He _didn't_ ,” he corrected himself, “keep very regular sleep patterns. He'd slept about three hours in forty-eight at that point.” 

Moriarty didn't look completely convinced. “Oh dear, he really wasn't the man I thought he was if a little sleepiness stopped him from noticing the reek of chlorine. I made those sheets up myself, you know, I know how strong it was. Our dearest Sherlock must have smelt it – that was the whole point!”

Shit, thought John. Moriarty wasn't completely convinced by the story, which meant he didn't completely believe Sherlock was dead, which meant Sherlock was in danger. John desperately cast around for an additional detail that might persuade Moriarty that this was the truth. There was only one thing he could think of, and the idea of using it as a lie to Moriarty made him feel sick to the stomach. He didn't have much choice, though. 

John took a short breath. “At the time he went to sleep, the whole room smelt of sex rather than chlorine,” he said, the lie souring his stomach until he thought he was going to vomit on Moriarty's designer shoes. “I didn't notice anything odd while I was in the bed either.” Shit, that was going to raise the question of why he hadn't been poisoned as well. “He fell straight asleep afterwards,” he added. “He didn't even wake up when I left.”

Moriarty's eyes widened into one of his overdone shocked expressions. “Oh, naughty Johnny!” He punched John's arm in a manner that probably looked playful to the others on the carriage, but which was hard enough to hurt. “Taking advantage of a sleep-deprived consulting detective like that! And I had been informed you were straight.” The last sentence came out in a hard, threatening voice, and was accompanied by a glare at one of his men, who twitched and looked down at the floor.

“My sexuality is absolutely none of your business,” said John.

“Silly boy,” said Moriarty, ruffling his hair, which made John want to lash out at him, although he managed to restrain himself. “The moment you met Sherlock, _everything_ about you became my business. I have to say, I'm not really pleased about the idea of you having touched him. I can be a bit possessive, you know.”

“He was never yours to possess,” snapped John.

“Oh yes, he was,” said Moriarty with confidence. “My nemesis – the yin to my yang. So sad that he was vanquished so easily. That's your fault, you know – he should have noticed the chlorine. I just wanted to poke him a bit, make him realise that I could reach him anywhere he tried to hide so that he'd come out and play properly. So boring! However will I entertain myself now?”

“You could learn to crochet,” suggested John, “or I hear fishing is fun.”

Moriarty made a face. “Oh no, far too dull. I think I shall have to take control of the world instead. The criminal part of the world, anyway, although once you have that, everything else is really just yours for the taking.”

A cold shiver ran down John's spine. The idea of Moriarty having that much power was terrifying. “You won't manage it,” he said.

Moriarty laughed. “Who's going to stop me? Sherlock's dearest big brother? He can barely be bothered to even leave his office. Besides, I've arranged for a few things that will keep him very busy for a bit and by the time he's noticed me, it'll be far too late.”

He stood up, adjusting his suit and smirking down at John, who glared impotently at him. “Oh yes, things are about to get very exciting. I just wish Sherlock were around to enjoy it.” He ruffled John's hair again. “I'll definitely enjoy your reaction as the whole world goes up in flames though. Especially as you'll know that if you had managed to keep your dick in your trousers, it might all have been prevented. 

“Stay on the train now, Johnny, or people will start dying anyway. I'm a bit put out by all this, so I'll take any excuse.”

The tube pulled into a station and he sauntered off, blending into the crowd as if he was just another yuppie. His men stayed on board and glared at John with enough force to keep him in his seat, although he was itching to chase after Moriarty, or at least get to somewhere where he might be able to get a phone signal so that he could contact Mycroft.

Moriarty's men got off at the next station but stayed on the platform until the doors had closed again, watching John in a completely unsubtle manner. Once the train had moved into the tunnel, John let out several long breaths, trying to get the tension to drain from his body, but it didn't really work. He felt jittery and on-edge, his whole body keyed up with the need to fight back against Moriarty's threats.

He got off at the next station and practically ran up the escalators to get to the surface. He pulled out his phone, and then hesitated. Should he be calling Mycroft or Lestrade? He wanted to call Mycroft because he knew that was his best link to Sherlock, and he wanted Sherlock to know that Moriarty was apparently convinced of his death, but what would he be doing if Sherlock were dead? Contacting the police? Going home and have a stiff drink? Going to Sherlock's grave to tell him off for leaving him in this situation?

In the end, John sent Lestrade a text, then called Mycroft.

_Just had a run-in with Moriarty. Should I be letting you know in an official capacity?_

Mycroft picked up on the third ring. “John,” he said. “I had not expected to hear from you again.”

John could hear the edge to his voice that meant _You weren't meant to be contacting me, you're putting Sherlock in danger,_ and scowled at nothing. “Just had a little chat with Moriarty,” he said. “Thought you might want to know that he's intending to take over the world. Oh, and he said he'd done some things that would be keeping you distracted while he did so.”

There was a pause, then Mycroft let out a quiet sigh. “How ambitious of him,” he said. “I shall look forward to a few late nights. Is there anything else I should know? Anything that might need to be acted on immediately?”

John knew what he was really saying. _Is he convinced by Sherlock's death?_

“Just the usual creepy mastermind talk,” he said. “He seems a bit upset that his nemesis is dead.”

There was a pause. “Well, he has no one to blame but himself,” said Mycroft eventually, and John felt himself wince at how cold-hearted that sounded. “Where are you?”

“I'm at Maida Vale,” said John. His phone beeped with an incoming text message. “Hang on,” he said, and pulled the phone away from his ear so he could read it.

_Jesus, are you okay? Come to the Yard and fill out a statement, will you? The more we know about him, the closer we're likely to get._

John privately thought that he didn't think the police were likely to get close to Moriarty at all, but he could see the sense in documenting everything.

“I'm going to the Yard to give Lestrade a statement,” he said, heading for the nearest taxi rank. He wasn't really up for another tube ride right now.

“Ah, excellent,” said Mycroft. “Be as detailed as possible. I shall find some way to look at a copy of it.”

John snorted at the idea that Mycroft would have to exert any effort to get a copy of a confidential police document. “I'll do my best,” he said. “You know my observations aren't up to the Holmes standard.”

“You do better than you think,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock would not have trusted you as much as he did if you didn't.”

John heard the double meaning in that and gritted his teeth. “That's not actually very reassuring,” he said.

“Isn't it?” asked Mycroft in the tone of voice he used to mean 'you're wrong, but I'm far too busy and important to explain how right now'. “Thank you for contacting me. Feel free to do so again under the same circumstances.”

He hung up without saying goodbye and John glared at his phone for a moment before returning it to his pocket.

****

Giving his statement to Lestrade and Donovan was more than a little awkward. They were both so concerned and sympathetic, and it made John's jaw clench. When he reported the part where he'd told Moriarty that he and Sherlock had been having sex, Donovan made an involuntary noise, then cleared her throat as if to hide it.

Lestrade just nodded, but John could see he was surprised. He wasn't sure why; he'd always assumed that everyone thought they'd been having sex since John moved into 221B. Maybe it was that he was talking about it so casually – well, if Sherlock had wanted to keep it a secret, he should have stuck around to let John know that.

After they'd gone through everything, Lestrade glanced down at the statement and sighed. “Christ, the man's a megalomaniac.”

“Yeah,” said John, then couldn't help glancing at Donovan. “That's what a real psychopath's like, you know. Nothing like Sherlock.”

Donovan pursed her lips and didn't reply, but John suspected that was more out of respect for the dead than that she didn't have some vicious barb waiting.

Lestrade rubbed at his face. “I've got to admit, we've not really got anything solid to go on at the moment. It's all just whispers and rumours. If he is taking over the criminal world, he's not left us any leads. Well, not anything we can pick up on, anyway.” The unspoken knowledge that Sherlock would have found something hung in the air between them.

“If there's anything I can do to help,” offered John.

Lestrade shook his head and John felt frustration rush through him. Why would no one let him lend a hand? Why was he always the one who was stuck watching from the sidelines? 

“I couldn't ask you to do any more,” said Lestrade. “We don't want him getting obsessed with you instead, now that-” He stopped abruptly.

“Now that Sherlock's dead?” John finished bitterly. “Don't think there's much chance of that. I'm not nearly enough of a genius to interest him.”

Lestrade shrugged a shoulder. “It's not unusual for the obsessive stalker type to transfer their attention to the closest person to their original target if they're no longer available. Best you keep your head down, I'd say.”

John felt his hand clench into a fist, and had to take a long, slow breath to stop himself lashing out. Keep his head down. He'd been a soldier, for god's sake; danger didn't worry him. Why was everyone so desperate to wrap him in cotton-wool?

“I'll just go home and do the crossword then, shall I?” he said. “And never mind that the psychopath who has kidnapped me twice now, and who killed Sherlock, is running around trying to take over.”

“John,” said Lestrade, “I know it's hard, but you need to leave this with us. We're going to need to keep this all official if we're going to get him, and get a conviction.”

John forced the air out of his lungs, then nodded. “Right,” he said. “Fine.” He stood up. “If that's everything.”

Lestrade stood up too. “I'll walk you out.”

Lestrade was mercifully silent as they headed through the building to the foyer and John struggled to restrain his anger at how impotent he felt. Was he really meant to just stay in the flat, pretending to mourn Sherlock and trying not to let the frustration swallow him up?

When they got to the foyer, Lestrade paused. “John,” he said. “I am sorry about all this.”

John shook that off. “Not your fault,” he grudgingly allowed. His anger was mainly aimed at Sherlock, after all. There was no real need to take it out on Lestrade, who was just doing his job.

“Was-” said Lestrade, then stopped and started again. “You and Sherlock, you were...” He trailed off, but John could guess the rest of the sentence.

“Yeah,” he said shortly.

Lestrade clapped his arm and squeezed it. “I didn't know, mate,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“It was a new thing,” said John, feeling as if the words were sticking in his throat. He really didn't want to be talking about this now, when he was already struggling with so many other emotions.

“I thought Sherlock was uninterested in anything like that,” said Lestrade. “But then, if anyone was going to get past his walls, it would have been you. You were incredibly important to him, even if he wasn't the type to ever say it.”

Oh god, this had to be one of the most uncomfortable moments of John's life. “I know,” he said, because despite having been left behind by him, he couldn't ever lie to himself about his place in Sherlock's life. He might have burnt the note that Sherlock had left him, but some phrases from it were engraved into his brain. 

“He did tell me,” he added. “At the end, when he knew he was-” He couldn't quite bring himself to say 'dying', not with Lestrade looking at him like that, so instead he substituted, “leaving.” 

Lestrade looked grey with sadness as he nodded, squeezed John's arm again. “Look,” he said. “I wasn't going to mention this to you until there was a definite decision, but there's been talk of giving Sherlock a posthumous award for all he did to help us.”

John stared at him. _Oh god,_ he thought. _If they do that, and then he turns up alive, the whole of Scotland Yard is going to be pissed off._ “An award?” he said. “Not really Sherlock's thing, that.”

Lestrade snorted. “That's what he'd have liked us to think, but we both know how much he enjoyed his genius being recognised. It may not come to anything, but if it does, would you accept it on his behalf?”

“Me?” said John.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “Well, who else?” 

John couldn't come up with an answer to that. Sadly, Lestrade knew Mycroft, and how Sherlock felt about him, and so knew how ridiculous that would be as a suggestion.

“Well, think about it,” said Lestrade when John didn't reply. “I realise it's been a pretty shit day for you.”

John snorted. “They're all shit days at the moment.”

He hailed another taxi, thinking that he wasn't going to be the only one punching Sherlock when he came back ( _if_ part of his brain insisted, but he stifled it.) Come to that, it was likely that John would be getting a fist to the face as well. Well, he probably deserved it.

****

After that, nothing happened. Day followed day followed week, and nothing kept happening. John went back to work at the surgery, picking up as many shifts as he could, but there were still too many empty hours to fill every day. Hours in which all he could do was wonder where Sherlock was, what he was doing, if he ever spared a thought for John or if he was too busy going after Moriarty, actually getting to do something that would put an end to this whole thing once and for all while John sat around twiddling his thumbs.

Mycroft came by to let him know that Sherlock's bank accounts had all been transferred into John's name. He didn't say anything that wasn't completely appropriate for a grieving man visiting his brother's partner to finalise the details of the Will, and John found himself hating him for it. Mycroft almost certainly knew more about where Sherlock was and what he was doing than John did, and that was hideously unfair.

When he left, John went into the kitchen to make himself tea and found himself staring at Sherlock's chemistry equipment instead, all still set up for some experiment. He reacted without thinking, sweeping his arm across the table and knocking it all onto the floor with a loud crash of breaking glass. It didn't really make him feel any better, but at least clearing up the glass gave him something to do.

****

His walks grew longer and more wandering, circling around the city with nowhere to go, and no one he wanted to see that he could get to. It was a cold, overcast day that he passed by a bookies, saw the signs up advertising racing at Newmarket, and thought, _Well, why not?_ It would at least give him something to do that afternoon, something other than worry about Sherlock and wish that he was with him.

He won his first bet, then lost the next two, but by the time he left, thirty pounds worse off, he was feeling the thrum of excitement for the first time since Sherlock had disappeared. Watching his horse come within a neck's length of winning only to be overtaken at the last moment sent a shot of adrenalin through him as if he was the one racing for the finish line.

He found himself back there the next day, then found a bookies closer to Baker Street the day after. With Sherlock's money in his account, he could afford a few losses, and sometimes he even won, which gave him a rush of excitement that was the only emotion that could really break through the current monotony of his life.

A week and a half later, a man who was at the bookies even more often than John told him about a poker game that was run in the back of a near-by pub on Friday nights. John thought about Sherlock's reaction the last time he'd played poker and the argument they'd had about addiction, and then about another Friday night spent watching what passed for comedy on telly these days, and found himself agreeing to go. After all, if Sherlock had an opinion on John's behaviour, he could always come home and tell him about it.

Mycroft appeared at 221B again that Friday afternoon. John had no doubt the timing was no accident.

“Good afternoon, John,” he said, settling into Sherlock's chair as if John had any interest in seeing him there. “I hope you won't mind my visit. I feel that with Sherlock gone, the least I can do is keep an eye on those he cared about. How are you?”

His eyes lingered on the pile of old betting slips that John had cleared out of his pocket but not yet had time to throw away. John scowled at him.

“As well as can be expected,” he said. “Any change at your end?”

Mycroft smiled briefly, with no emotion behind it. “I'm afraid not,” he said. “I suppose we must accept that these things – the process of grief – take a long time. Longer than is generally expected.”

So Sherlock was finding that it was going to take longer than he'd thought. John slumped back in his chair, wondering how long he would have to keep up this charade.

“In the meantime, we can only continue as Sherlock would have wanted us to,” continued Mycroft. “Live our lives in such a way that would make him proud.” His eyes lingered on the betting slips again.

John refused to feel ashamed. What did Sherlock expect John to do? Just sit in the sitting room they should be sharing day after day, watching all the rubbish television that Sherlock hated even more than John did?

“Probably best not to get too caught up on what Sherlock would or wouldn't want,” he said. “After all, he's gone now, and it's up to us to continue as best we can.”

Mycroft sighed. “Is this really the 'best'?” he asked. “Wasting time and money on a fool's pursuit?”

John bristled with anger. “It's my time, and my money,” he pointed out. “I'll waste it on what I want.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I'm afraid I'm about to head out to waste more of it. You'll have to come and visit another time.”

“John, please,” said Mycroft, not moving to stand up. “Take a moment to think about what you're doing.”

“I have,” said John, standing up. “I am indulging in some harmless entertainment now that I have nothing else to do.”

Mycroft stood as well, and fixed him with a fierce look. “Is that all Sherlock was to you? 'Harmless entertainment'?”

Anger shot through John. “You know damn well he wasn't,” he hissed. “But it's either this, or I go insane with boredom, or I ignore everything you and-” he almost said Sherlock's name, but corrected it at the last minute to, “Lestrade have said, and go after Moriarty myself and show him just how important Sherlock is, was, to me.”

“That would be a mistake,” said Mycroft. “You are not equipped to be more than a temporary distraction to him, and would likely end up dead exceedingly quickly.”

John scowled. “I know,” he admitted. “Hence why I'm going to a pub for a friendly poker game, rather than arming myself to the teeth and hunting the bastard down.”

Mycroft looked at him for a very long moment, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I only hope that you will keep control of yourself. I do not want to have to go through all the rigmarole of breaking an addict of his habits again.”

John let out an exasperated noise. “I'm not an addict,” he said.

“Keep it that way,” said Mycroft, and swept out of the flat.

John vaguely thought about not going out after that, but the silence of the empty flat was enough to drive him out of it. He went to the poker game and nearly won more than he lost, although a disastrous last hand sent him into the red again. He made several new acquaintances, people who were able to tell him where other poker games were to be found, and even some blackjack ones. He did enjoy blackjack.

It was a way to pass the time, he told himself as he left the flat each day. On average he was losing more than he was winning, but only by tiny amounts – never enough to make him worry. Besides, every so often he hit a winning streak, and won and won until he felt almost as flushed with success as he had when Sherlock had kissed him back, what now seemed like an age ago.

****

“James? James?”

John ignored the voice, concentrating on the cards in front of him and wondering if he should split his pair of nines, or stick on eighteen.

“James?” There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder, pulling his attention away from the cards. “I thought I- Oh.”

The speaker cut himself off as John turned to look at him, and it took John a couple of seconds place him. Ron Adair – the man they had met in the Bagatelle Club, who knew Sebastian Moran. Shit.

“The burn...” said Ron, staring at John's face, and John abruptly remembered the make-up Sherlock had given him that night.

He had a moment of sheer panic that the part he had played so many months ago – and it was months now, months of nothing while Sherlock stayed in hiding – was about to be rumbled. In addition, he could feel the hostility rising amongst the men he was playing with – the ones he'd introduced himself to as John – as they became aware that a stranger was calling him by the wrong name.

“That's my brother,” he said quickly. “James has the burn. I'm John.”

“Oh,” said Ron, staring at him. “Wow. You look exactly like him.”

John managed a tight smile. “Not anymore,” he said.

“No, right, sorry,” said Ron, still staring at him. “Well, then, I'm Ron Adair, and I played a rather good game with your brother and his cousin a few months ago.” He brightened. “Your cousin as well, of course – is he still in town?” He glanced around, clearly hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's American alter-ego.

“No,” said John harshly. “He went back to L.A.”

“Are you playing or not?” asked the dealer irritably, and John turned back to his cards.

“Stick,” he said. Splitting would involve doubling his stake, and would take longer. Right now he just wanted to get out of there, away from the reminder of the last time he and Sherlock had been on a case together, and of how Sherlock felt about him gambling.

The dealer granted and turned his final card over, revealing a ten and a king. John sighed and pushed his stake towards him. That was the last of the money he had on him right now – he'd have to find a cash machine if he wanted to play another hand.

“Come on,” said Ron, pulling on his shoulder. “I'll buy you a drink.”

John hesitated, then nodded. He supposed he could try and find out if Ron knew anything knew about Moran. At least then he'd feel as if he was actually taking some part in the investigation into Moriarty's dealings.

As it happened, Ron had nothing interesting to say about Moran, but he was a relatively decent person to chat with. When he said he was going to be in a certain casino the next night, John agreed to meet him there. 

It would be a nice change to have someone friendly – or at least friendlyish – to hang out with and talk to while he played. Besides, it was a relief to talk to someone who didn't know Sherlock at all, let alone know the lie about his death, and so who didn't look at John with that pitying, sorrowful look that made him want to hunt Sherlock down and punch him in the face for leaving him stuck like this. That alone was worth the fact that Ron generally ended up going home with at least some of John's money in his pocket.

He was always as nice about it as he could be. “The problem is the risks you take,” he said one evening as they were heading to the tube station. “They're far too big – you need to be a bit more conservative sometimes.”

“If you don't take big risks, you'll never get the big pay-off,” pointed out John, thinking of that first kiss with Sherlock.

“Yeah,” agreed Ron, “but you'll also never lose everything.”

John just shrugged in response to that. At the moment, he could lose everything at any moment, if Moriarty caught up with Sherlock, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it. What did a few pounds here and there matter compared to that? “You playing tomorrow?” he asked, unsubtly changing the subject.

“Yes,” said Ron. “I'm partnering Seb at a private club. I could probably get you in, if you wanted.”

John shook his head. It would be a disaster if he ran into Sebastian Moran - he'd been carefully avoiding the kinds of places Ron had told him Moran favoured. Some risks were far too great to be taken.

“Suit yourself,” said Ron as they arrived at the tube station. “I'll probably have a pretty good time of it – I always seem to win bucketloads when I play with Seb. I swear, he has the devil's luck.”

 _He's certainly in league with the devil,_ thought John bitterly. He said goodbye to Ron as they separated to go to different tube lines and headed home, trying not to think about how empty it would be when he got there.

****

The next morning, he was sat over the first cup of tea of the day, wondering if it would be worth it to pop out for a paper or if the news would be nothing but budget cuts and celebrity drama as usual, when Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door and came in.

“Only me, dear,” she said, glancing around the room and taking in the scattered clutter that Sherlock had left behind and that John hadn't bothered to move. “Oh John, are you sure it's not time to start clearing away some of his things? I can help you, you know.”

John glared down at his mug, rather than direct his anger at her. “No, it's fine,” he said shortly. Sherlock could come back any day. John hoped he'd come back any day – the sooner the better. Then he could punch the bastard, then chain him to something to stop him running off again. A bed seemed like the best idea.

“Oh dear,” she tutted, settling on the edge of the sofa. “I know it's hard, love, but you will need to move on one day.”

“Not today,” said John shortly, then took a deep breath. This wasn't her fault – she thought Sherlock was dead, after all. She was actually mourning him, rather than just harbouring a deep anger. “I will put some of it away soon,” he said. “Just, not today.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him as sympathetic nod. “Alright, dear,” she said. “That's not what I'm actually here about, though.” She clutched her hands together, looking distressed. “Oh dear, it seems such a silly thing, in the light of- well, of everything, but I'm afraid I have to bring it up. It's only that- well. The bank contacted me. The automatic payment for your rent bounced this month. Like I said, I wouldn't bring it up at the moment, but I do need that money – I've bills of my own to pay.”

“Oh,” said John, surprised. He hadn't really been keeping a check on his bank balance. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, pulling his laptop towards himself and opening up the page for his internet banking. “I must have lost track of my spending a bit.” He typed in his passwords quickly, then blinked when the online statement of his current account came up. Christ, had he really lost that much? “It's not a problem,” he said, because Mrs. Hudson looked as if the whole conversation was making her very upset. “I'll transfer some over from my savings account, and resend it.”

“Oh, if you would,” she said. “That would be lovely. I'm so sorry to have to bring it up, but-”

“No, no,” said John. “I'm sorry. I'll keep better track – it won't happen again.”

She patted his shoulder before she went back downstairs and told him he was a good boy. John managed a weak smile in response, remembering when she had used to say that about Sherlock, despite all evidence to the contrary.

After he'd sorted out Mrs. Hudson's rent, transferring some of the money from one of Sherlock's accounts, he tried to remember how many times he'd been out gambling over the last few weeks, and how much he'd lost each night. When he realised that he had very little idea of which nights he had won and which he had lost, he felt a wave of despair and muffled shame wash over him. Maybe he did have a problem.

He took a stuttering breath. It didn't mean he was an addict, though. He just had to prove that he was the one with control, and rein it in a bit. He'd been intending to go to the bookies this afternoon because there was a horse race on, but he decided instead that he'd stay in. He'd take a few weeks off from any gambling, just to prove he could, and then when he went back to it, he'd keep better track of what he was doing. 

The day suddenly stretched out before him, empty and dull. He made himself another cup of tea, then found himself starting to think that he could go out anyway, but just keep a limit on how much he spent.

 _No,_ he told himself. No bets at all for at least a fortnight. Maybe he could start on putting some of Sherlock's stuff in his room rather than leaving it in place, gathering dust. That would make Mrs. Hudson happy, at least.

Packing away Sherlock's things made him miss the idiot madman like an aching wound in his chest. It was ridiculous how much he could miss him while still being furiously angry with him. Every newspaper he sorted through reminded him of a case that they'd worked side-by side, as it should be; every scrap of paper scrawled over with the notes of an experiment reminded him of arguments they'd had over the acceptable places for such things; every letter from a potential client that had been balled up and thrown across the room reminded him of the hours Sherlock had spent curled up on the sofa, sulking at the boredom of the world, and how John had always longed to show him just how many ways he could come up with to entertain him, if he'd let John take him to bed.

And now John was allowed to do that, but Sherlock was nowhere around to be shown. Not that he was likely to need entertaining right now, with all of Moriarty's network to unravel.

John scowled down at the box of papers he'd gathered, struck once again by how unfair it was that Sherlock was off chasing after criminals while John did housework. Maybe he should set the box on fire.

He didn't. Instead, he carefully packed away the vast majority of Sherlock's debris, then took it to his bedroom and left it stacked against a wall for him to sort out when he got back. By the time he'd done that, his fingers were beginning to itch to be holding cards, or a betting slip, but he resolutely went to the shops instead. Time to stop living off baked beans and takeaway.

****

He spent the next few days trying to convince himself that the desperate craving in him to pop into a bookies on his way home from work or click on one of the many internet gambling pop-ups that came up when he checked his email was a sign of how bored he was, and not that Sherlock had been right. He hadn't had any problem before, when he could be chasing off after Sherlock at any moment. He had to find something else to occupy his time.

He got a text from Ron a week and a half after that.

_Can we meet up? Need some advice._

John looked at it and hesitated. A large part of his mind was clamouring for him to say yes, and for them to meet at one of the many places they'd used to frequent together. He didn't need to expend any effort to come up with a list of all the places that would be holding a game tonight.

In the end though, he replied with, _Sure, if you don't mind it being a normal pub. Off gambling at the moment._

Ron replied within seconds. _Great, thanks mate. The Crown at 8?_

The Crown only held one game a week, and that had been two days ago. In fact, it didn't even have a fruit machine that John could remember. That seemed safe enough, so he texted back his agreement.

****

The first thing John noticed when he walked into the pub was how worried Ron looked.

“John,” he said with obvious relief. “Let me get you a pint.”

John wasn't about to say no to that. After he'd got them in, Ron glanced around the pub, then took John to the most secluded booth, right in the corner.

“I'm sorry to have contacted you like this,” he said. “I need some advice from someone whose integrity I can trust, and- well. I met most of my mates while gambling, which doesn't exactly lend itself to integrity.”

“You met me while gambling,” John pointed out.

“Yeah,” agreed Ron, “but you're far more honest than most gamblers. It's why you usually lose.”

John felt irritation sprout in him. He didn't lose often enough for _usually_. Did he? “I thought that was because I took big risks,” he said.

“Yeah, but they wouldn't be big risks if your face didn't give it all away,” said Ron.

John scowled. He was more than capable of bluffing – he'd managed to bluff Moriarty in that tube carriage, after all.

Ron saw the look on his face and cleared his throat. “Which is all beside the point. I need some advice, mate. And I need it to go no further than the two of us, okay?”

John pushed the irritation away and nodded. “Okay then,” he said. “Shoot.”

Ron took a deep breath. “Right then, well, you know I partner with Seb Moran, yeah?”

John stilled. “Yes,” he said carefully.

“Well, we usually win. I mean, not all the time, but often enough to come out pretty well. I don't gamble for the money – well, only idiots do that. I just like the atmosphere. Seb's not like that, though, winning is everything to him. And-” he hesitated, then tightened his fingers around his pint. “Last week, I'm pretty sure I caught him cheating.”

“Pretty sure?” asked John carefully.

“Very sure,” amended Ron. “I don't think there could be any other explanation for it. And it didn't look like he was new to it, which means that all that money we've won together isn't really ours. We've conned people for it. Not just any people, blokes we've been playing with for a few years now. People we're friendly with, and we've been as good as stealing from them.”

“You weren't to know,” said John.

Ron shook his head. “Doesn't matter. It's still true. And some of those blokes needed it a lot more than I do – I mean, I'm loaded, none of that money makes any difference to me. Seb always seems to have plenty as well, I don't even know why he'd do something like this.”

“Some men don't need a reason, they just like getting one over others,” said John. His mind was whirring. If Moran was cheating – and it seemed pretty certain he was – then it definitely wasn't for the money. The idea of Moriarty's second-in-command needing a second source of income was insane. He was doing it for kicks.

“Have you told anyone else about this?” John asked. “Did you mention it to Mo- to Seb?”

Ron shook his head. “No, I was too shocked. I've been thinking about it all weekend, trying to work out what to do. Do you think I should confront him? Warn everyone we play with? That implicates me as well – I've been benefiting from it as well, after all. They'll probably be pissed off with me too. I could tell him that I'd keep quiet as long as he stopped playing, I suppose.”

“Don't confront him,” said John quickly. Christ, who knew what Moran would do to someone who threatened his idea of fun like that? Ron would be lucky to last a week. “I wouldn't even let on you knew, if I were you. Just find some excuse not to play with him anymore.”

Ron frowned. “That seems a bit cowardly,” he said. “I'm not sure I could just run away – he'd keep playing, keep taking money from blokes who don't deserve to be fleeced.” His mouth twisted unhappily. “Jesus, it's such a mess. We walked away with at least a hundred from Tony on Friday, and nearly as much from Kevin. I should at least pay that back.”

“If he's willing to cheat like that, and take money from those people, what else might he do?” asked John. “Are you sure you want to risk exposing him?”

Ron blinked at him, then let out a laugh. “I don't think he's going to kill me or anything,” he said. “I mean, he may be a cheating bastard, but he's not a killer.”

John bit down on his tongue with frustration. That was exactly what Moran was, but there was no way he could tell Ron that. “Look,” he said instead. “You've already found out you can't trust the bloke. Who knows what else he's capable of? I'm just saying, you should be careful.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Ron, but he didn't sound convinced. He sighed. “I can't help thinking about all the money I've gained by him cheating. Tony's got two kids, you know, he can't go around losing money like that.”

 _Then maybe he shouldn't be gambling in the first place,_ thought John. Well, he wasn't really one to talk – who was the one whose rent had bounced this month?

“I don't know,” said Ron, shaking his head. “I don't really want to confront him – his temper can get a bit out of hand – but I don't want to let it go, either.”

“Well, where do you usually play?” John asked. “You could tell whoever runs it, but ask them to keep your name out of it.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, they're likely to take him to a dark alleyway and kneecap him. Well, they would if it was anyone else. He's friends with them – they might let him go with a couple of broken fingers.”

“Jesus,” said John. “Where the hell are you playing?” Inside, he was thinking that if a gang that violent knew Moran, they probably knew who he really was, and wouldn't risk antagonising Moriarty by injuring his second-in-command.

“It's not that,” said Ron. “Just frequented by a certain type of person. They're all good sorts, though – it's not as if what they do affects their sense of gamesmanship.”

John blinked. Either Ron was secretly a criminal as well – although Sherlock would probably have picked up on that the first time they met him – or he was dangerously naive.

“It seems to have affected Moran's,” he pointed out.

Ron sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Christ, I can't believe it. He always seemed like such a good bloke. What happened to being able to trust people?”

They had another couple of pints, but John was unable to persuade Ron that he should tread extremely carefully around Moran. The best he could do was get him to agree that a direct confrontation was a bad idea. As he walked home, he couldn't shake a creeping sense of dread. This wasn't going to end well.

****

Three days later, he opened the newspaper to find Ron's face staring up at him.

_Earl's Son Murdered  
The Honourable Ronald Adair shot last night._

“Oh god,” he whispered. Of course Moran would have had him killed once he caught a whisper that Ron was on to him. In fact, he'd probably done it himself. John should have done more to help him – a lot more. He should have told Lestrade or Mycroft, got a message to Sherlock. Anything other than sit back and do nothing, as he'd been doing for months now. His chance to actually do something, and he'd let it slip through his fingers, and now Ron was dead.

The article told him precious little. Ron had been found dead in his study by his sister, who apparently lived with him. Ron hadn't ever mentioned her, but then they hadn't really talked about anything other than card games and bets. John had certainly had no idea his father was an earl. No wonder he wasn't bothered about the money when he gambled.

He'd been shot in the head whilst sitting at his desk. John pictured the mess that would have caused and winced.

The rest of the article covered Ron's history, which was mostly new to John but irrelevant. He knew who had killed Ron and why. He was probably the only one – the paper said the police were making enquiries, which essentially meant they were baffled.

His hands tightened into fists, crumpling the paper. What was he meant to do now? Sit back and pretend nothing had happened? Even if that was what Sherlock would advise, there was no way John could do it. He'd been mates with Ron – of a sort. You didn't just let it go when one of your mates was murdered.

He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. Right, time to think. Really think. He needed to keep Moriarty convinced that Sherlock was dead, but apart from that, why should it matter if he contacted the police and told them what he knew? Actually, it would probably look odd to Moriarty if he didn't. If he was keeping the close eye on John that Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to think he was, he'd know that John knew Ron, and that they'd had a very long chat in a pub after Ron had found out about Moran, but before he'd done anything. If John didn't talk to the police, they'd wonder why someone who had spent a great deal of time unofficially helping the police was now prepared to ignore the murder of a friend.

But then, from the point of view of Moriarty and Moran, hadn't he basically ignored Sherlock's murder? Would it look odd if he did more for Ron than he had for Sherlock?

He glanced down at the paper again, at the picture of Ron. Jesus, what was he doing? One of his mates was dead, and he was actually debating whether or not he should help. All the time he'd spent with Holmeses had clearly had a bad effect on him.

He pulled out his phone and called Lestrade.

“Hello?”

“Who's working the Ron Adair case?” John asked without bothering with a greeting.

“I am,” said Lestrade. “I'm at the crime scene now, in fact. Why?”

Well, that made things much simpler. “Can I come down and see it?” asked John.

“Ah,” said Lestrade carefully. “Not sure about that, mate. There's not really an official reason for it, is there?”

“There never really was with Sherlock either,” said John. “Look, I might know something.”

There was a long pause, then Lestrade sighed. “John, I know it's been hard for you without Sherlock, but-”

“No,” said John quickly. “No, it's not that. It's- I knew Ron. He was a mate. He told me something a couple of days ago that might be related.” Lestrade was silent, but John thought he could feel him weakening. “Please,” he added. “Come on, Greg. I don't- I'm so sick of watching my mates die and not being able to do anything about it.”

That got Lestrade. He let out a long breath. “Fine,” he said. “But you'll have to be quick.”

“I will be,” promised John as a rush of energy surged through him.

The sensation of fizzing excitement in his stomach as he travelled to Ron's house was still familiar, even if he hadn't felt it since Sherlock had left. _God, I've missed this,_ he thought. It wasn't just the thrill of the chase, it was knowing that he might be able to help Sherlock in some small way. If he and the police could find a way to take down Moran without any connection to Sherlock, then surely that could only help Sherlock take out Moriarty's empire?

When the taxi drew up at Ron's building, John jumped out with as much enthusiasm as Sherlock had ever shown at a murder, throwing money at the driver without really looking at how much it was. Greg met him at the door and took him up to the penthouse, where Ron had lived with his sister and their ailing mother, both of whom were in the sitting room, looking shaken and miserable.

That took the edge off John's excitement somewhat. Someone had actually died – a good man, even if he had been too fond of cards. No matter what John did, Ron's family were still going to have lost him.

“The scene's in the study,” said Lestrade. “I'm not taking you in there until you've told me what you know, though.”

John shook his head. “The scene first,” he said.

Lestrade shook his head. “Jesus, you sound just like-” He cut himself off and gave John a stricken look, as if he'd made some massive faux pas.

John clenched his jaw and took a careful breath. Right, mustn't forget that he was in mourning. “Look,” he said carefully. “I don't know for sure that what Ron told me is related to this.” That wasn't true – he was almost completely sure that Moran was the one who had murdered Ron – but he didn't want to tell Lestrade about it until he'd seen the scene and made absolutely certain, and also worked out if telling would somehow put Sherlock in danger.

Lestrade sighed, and he looked as tired and put-upon as he ever had when Sherlock had been at one of crime scenes. John wondered if he should be proud that he was keeping to tradition.

“Oh, fine,” said Lestrade. “I don't suppose it matters.” He thrust a pair of gloves in John's hands. “Come on, then.”

He led the way to the study. Inside, the outline of Ron's body was drawn on the floor, blood seeping into the carpet where his head had been.

Seeing where he had died made John pause for a moment as the realisation that someone he had been friends with was actually gone. For a moment, the scene had nothing to do with Moran, or Moriarty, or even Sherlock. It was only the ending of a friendship John had started to rely on.

He took a deep breath, then took in the rest of the details. Ron had clearly been sitting at his desk chair when he'd been shot, and the force of the shot had thrown him and the chair backwards to the floor. The window was shattered inward, covering the floor with glass, and there was a bullet hole in the wall behind where Ron had been sitting.

“The bullet went straight through the window, his head, and into the wall,” said John.

“Yeah,” agreed Lestrade. “We dug it out, but I've not seen anything like it before. Hoping the ballistics guys will be able to tell us more.”

“Have you still got it here?” asked John. “Could I take a look?”

Lestrade nodded. “I'll just get it.” He turned to leave the room, then glanced over his shoulder. “Don't touch anything,” he said in a stern tone, then left.

John didn't touch anything. He did take a look at the papers on the desk, though. Ron had been making a list of dates, names and amounts of money. He squinted at it for a moment before he recognised two of the names: Kevin and Tony. He'd been making a list of all the people he had won money from because of Moran's cheating, with a running total. Had he been intending to try and pay them all back?

John felt a wave of sadness pass through him as he remembered Ron worrying about Tony's children. Someone that kind-hearted should not have got mixed up with Moran.

Lestrade came back with an evidence bag, and one glance at it was enough to tell John what he had already known. The bullet was the same as the ones that had studded the wall at Mycroft's house the day he and Sherlock had been shot at. Moran was definitely the killer.

He let out a long breath. “Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he said. “Lives in Muswell Hill – I can get you the actual address. He partnered Ron at cards sometimes, and last week Ron found out he'd been cheating.” He gestured at the list of names and amounts. “He was intending to try and make it up to the people they'd won money from. I tried to talk him out of confronting Moran himself, but I suspect I didn't succeed.”

“Sebastian Moran?” repeated Lestrade, pulling out his notebook and jotting down the name. “You're sure it was him?”

“Oh yes,” said John. He stared at the outline of Ron's body again, thinking about how close both he and Sherlock had come to having a bullet like that one ripping through their brains. “He's Moriarty's second-in-command. He's the one who was trying to-” He stumbled, correcting himself, “who was responsible for Sherlock's death.” Shit, shit, he'd nearly messed that one up.

Lestrade's eyes widened. “Jesus,” he said.

“Yeah,” said John. He fixed Lestrade with the fiercest look he could. “Find some way to put him away.”

Lestrade nodded, looking around the room again. “I'll get my best people on it,” he said. “We'll get him this time, I promise, John.”

When John left about half an hour later, having filled in Lestrade with as much detail as he could about Moran, and Ron's relationship with him, he was feeling himself for the first time since he'd woken up to find Sherlock's side of the bed empty. They were going to get Moran, Moriarty's organisation would wobble, and Sherlock would be able to swoop in and take it down completely. This thing was nearly over, thank god.

As he headed back to the nearest tube station – no point in wasting money on another taxi – he was a world away from the street he was walking down, already imagining what he'd do first when Sherlock finally came home. Punch him first, then kiss him. No, kiss him, then punch him, then kiss him again.

“Oi!”

There was a sharp pain in John's shin. He'd been so distracted by thoughts of Sherlock that he'd completely failed to notice an old man on a mobility scooter, and had walked into him.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, rubbing at his shin.

“Can't you fucking watch where you're going? You're not the only one on the pavement,” snapped back the old man in a thick Newcastle accent. He was wrapped in so many layers of coats and jackets and scarves that John could barely see his face.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated. “I was miles away.”

The old man made a disgusted noise. “Fucking idiot,” he muttered, putting his scooter back into motion. He zoomed off a lot faster than John thought those things could go, zig-zagging around other pedestrians, and John privately thought that it was a wonder he didn't hit more people, driving like that.

****

The next day, he got a text from Lestrade.

_Been asking around about Adair and Moran. Found a witness who saw them having an argument on Wed, heard mention of cheating. Not got any physical evidence from where the shooter was, though. He was good._

Well, of course he was, thought John. Moriarty wouldn't employ second-rate snipers.

He went out to Tesco and came back with Sherlock's favourite kind of biscuits – wishful thinking, maybe, but he was more than ready for this whole thing to be over.

“Oh, it's you,” said a voice with a Newcastle accent as he passed Speedy's, and he looked to see the old man from yesterday, although he seemed to have abandoned the mobility scooter for a stick. He was sat at one of the tables outside Speedy's, holding a takeaway coffee cup and with one of their bags in front of him.

“Uh, hello,” John said, surprised. “Look, if you're going to shout at me again-”

“No, no,” said the man quickly. “I regretted that almost immediately. I was having a bad day, and you came along at the wrong moment. You know how it is. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

“Oh, right,” said John, taken aback. “That's okay, really. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.”

The man shook his head. “That doesn't mean you deserved the abuse I gave you.” He pushed the bag from Speedy's towards John. “Let me make it up to you. Have a doughnut.”

“That's okay,” declined John.

The man shook the bag out at him. “No, no, I insist. You'd be helping me out, anyway. My doctor insists I shouldn't eat them, but they looked too good, you know? All that sugar and jam. And what do doctors know, anyway? I'm sure they exist to take all the fun out of life.”

John snorted. “Yeah, they're complete killjoys,” he said. 

“Have a doughnut,” insisted the man again. John weakened. Speedy's doughnuts were a really good example of an already great treat, and if it would make the man feel better about yesterday...

“Well, if you insist.” He reached out for a doughnut.

As he leant forward, his hand in the bag, the old man grabbed his wrist with an extremely tight grip.

“I'm about to have a funny turn,” he said in a whisper. “It is vitally important that you take me up to your flat.”

John stared at him with wide eyes. “What?”

The old man shook his wrist. “Act normally!” he hissed, and his Newcastle accent had completely disappeared and been replaced by something far more familiar. “John, I need you to get me up to the flat so we can talk properly.”

It was Sherlock. John gave him what must have been a completely shocked look for a moment, then managed to school his expression. There was clearly someone watching them, he needed to act naturally.

“Right,” he said back in a quiet voice. Sherlock gave him a quick nod and let go of his wrist so that he could take out a doughnut.

“Enjoy it!” he said, with his accent back in place. Then the smile on his face slid off, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped backwards in his seat with a little moan as the cup of coffee slid from his hand.

Time for John to prove his acting skills weren't as shoddy as everyone seemed to think they were.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Sir, can you hear me?”

Sherlock moaned again, and fluttered his eyelashes.

John reached for his pulse. “It's okay, I'm a doctor,” he said. “It's going to be okay. I just need you to squeeze my hand, if you can.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand with a solid grip that didn't match the rest of his act, then slowly opened his eyes. “Oh dear,” he said in a breathy voice. “I'm sorry, this hasn't happened for a while.”

“It's fine,” said John. “Can you tell me how you're feeling?”

“Just a bit weak,” said Sherlock. “Everything's dizzy.” His voice trailed off at the end.

“Is he okay?” asked a voice behind them. John glanced over his shoulder to see what could be either a concerned passer-by or one of Moriarty's spies.

“He's just had a bit of a turn,” said John. “It's okay, I'm a doctor.”

He turned back to Sherlock. “How about you come in to my flat?” he said. “It's right there,” he nodded at the door of 221, “and you can have a sit down and I'll check you over properly.”

“Oh, I couldn't possibly put you out like that,” said Sherlock.

“Nonsense,” said John firmly. “It's no bother at all. I'll give you a replacement cup of coffee.”

Sherlock glanced down at the mess his coffee had made when he dropped it. “That would be extremely kind of you,” he said.

“Right then,” said John. “Give me a moment, I'll get rid of these bags and open the door, then come and help you up the steps.”

The passer-by insisted on helping John get Sherlock up the two steps that led to 221's front door, but John didn't let him inside.

“It's only down the hall from here,” he said, gesturing at Mrs. Hudson's door. She was away, spending a long weekend with her sister, so at least there was no risk of her coming out and recognising Sherlock.

“Right, okay then,” said the stranger. John couldn't tell if the way he was looking around the hallway was normal curiosity or something more sinister. He was rather relieved when he finally got the door shut on him.

He let out a short breath then turned around to look at Sherlock, who had straightened from his stoop and pulled off his hat, taking the grizzled mop of grey hair with it.

“You utter bastard,” said John, clenching his hands into fists.

Sherlock took a very swift step backwards and raised his hands defensively. “John, wait,” he said. “Don't hit me.”

“You bloody deserve it,” said John.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Sherlock, “but I need to keep this disguise in place for when I leave here, and a punch would ruin it.”

“And how long will it be before I see you again after that?” asked John. “It's been bloody months already! You just ran off and left me sleeping, Sherlock, do you have any idea-”

“You can shout at me all you like later,” interrupted Sherlock. “John, we don't have long. If I'm here longer than ten minutes, it will start to look suspicious.”

“Ten minutes,” said John. “What, exactly, are we meant to do with ten minutes?”

“Well, I'd suggest blowjobs, but-”

John growled.

Sherlock winced. “Ah, you're still too angry for that kind of comment.”

“Sherlock, you should consider me too angry for almost any kind of comment,” said John. Actually having Sherlock in front of him was making him realise just how empty and alone the last few months had been. He'd been abandoned, and now he was expected to jump right back into action, as if he was a toy who'd been left on a shelf but which Sherlock was now ready to play with again.

“John, I am sorry,” said Sherlock, and he almost looked it. “There was no other choice. I needed to gather all the threads of Moriarty's organisation, and I needed you to be safe while I did it.”

“And what about what I needed?” asked John. “Because I've got to tell you, being left here alone, with nothing to do but pretend to mourn you while all our friends actually mourn you is not what I needed at all.”

Sherlock sighed, then glanced at his watch. “Look, there's no time for this argument. Can we save it until tomorrow?”

John frowned. “Tomorrow? What's happening tomorrow?”

“Hopefully this whole thing will be over by then,” said Sherlock. “I have almost all of Moriarty's organisation in my net now. There's a couple of strands missing, but your actions have necessitated moving the whole plan along – we're going to strike tonight, and take down everything in one go.”

“My actions?” asked John.

“Going to the scene of Ronald Adair's murder yesterday,” said Sherlock, “and then getting Lestrade to start asking questions about Moran. I'm sure you meant well,” Sherlock could not have said that in a more patronising voice if he tried and John felt his hands form into fists again, “but it has turned attention back to you.”

“Surely that's a good thing? While they're looking at me, they're not paying attention to what you're doing.”

Sherlock gave him a fierce look. “Honestly, John,” he said. “You've missed the whole point. I can't let them hurt you!”

“So you'll put yourself in danger instead?” returned John. “You're a bloody idiot if you think it's better for me to hang about doing nothing for months and months while you're in danger and I can't help!”

“Anything is better than you being dead,” snapped Sherlock. “I nearly watched you die twice, John. Twice! In what should have been the safest place in Britain! I wasn't prepared to wait to give them a third chance.”

“That should have been my decision!” shouted back John.

There was a beep from Sherlock's pocket, cutting through the argument. He made a face and pulled out a phone, glanced at it, then tucked it away again. “I need to go,” he said.

John stared at him. “Already?” he asked. “You've been here barely five minutes!”

“Yes, and we've wasted most of it with arguing,” said Sherlock, pulling his wig and hat back on. “Look, Mycroft will be sending a car for you tonight, at about seven. Get in it. And bring your gun.”

“What's happening?” asked John.

Sherlock picked up his stick. “I'll tell you tonight – there's no time now.” He hunched back over into his old man persona, then gestured at the door. “Let me out.”

John was extremely tempted to refuse. Sherlock had barely told him anything and now he was already trying to get away. John wanted to bar the door and force him to stay until he actually knew what was going on.

“John,” said Sherlock, reading his thoughts from his face. “I have to go. We will both be in danger if my cover is blown.”

John's shoulders slumped and he stepped aside from the door. “You're a fucking bastard,” he said as he opened the door.

“I know,” said Sherlock quietly, then he shuffled forward.

John helped the old man back down the stairs with a few doctorly platitudes, and waved away Sherlock's enthusiastic thanks, then watched as he lurched off down the road and managed to hail a taxi almost immediately.

He shut the door once Sherlock's taxi was out of sight and leant back on it to take a deep breath. Less than ten minutes in Sherlock's presence and he felt like he'd experienced every emotion known to man. Adrenalin was already starting to hum through his veins in anticipation of whatever was happening tonight.

 _And after that, I'll definitely punch him,_ he thought. _And kiss him,_ added the part of his brain that was upset he'd wasted his five minutes with Sherlock arguing rather than kissing. Hopefully, there would be plenty of time for that after this. Time to shout at Sherlock, then kiss him and take him to bed, and keep him there for a good few days.

****

By the time Mycroft's car arrived, right on the dot of seven, John had been sitting waiting for it for nearly half an hour.

Mycroft rang his doorbell. “John,” he said in greeting. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

John blinked at him, then realised he must be referring to some sort of cover story. “Not a problem,” he said, then shrugged. “It's not as if I have much else to do these days.”

“I thought we'd dine at my club,” said Mycroft, stepping back so that John could shut the front door and get into Mycroft's car.

“Sounds great,” said John tightly.

He'd half-expected to see Sherlock inside the car when he got in, but it was empty. Mycroft got in behind him, then they moved off.

“Are we really going to your club?” asked John.

“Oh yes,” said Mycroft. “We will be followed there. You are being followed everywhere these days.”

John tried not to react as if that was news to him, but he doubted Mycroft was fooled.

At the club, Mycroft led the way through several rooms of silent men, then into a small sitting room.

Sherlock was slumped in a chair, scowling at the fireplace. He was dressed as himself, in an expensive and slightly too-tight suit, and it was a punch to the stomach to see him exactly as John remembered him. The surge of automatic affection was followed almost immediately by the anger he was still sitting on.

“I suppose I'm still not allowed to punch you,” he said.

The scowl fell off Sherlock's face as he looked up, replaced by a lightning-fast look that took in John's entire body, and then by a rueful smile. “Not quite,” he said. “Let's get Moriarty and Moran first.”

“I'm not sure I approve of this talk of domestic abuse,” said Mycroft, crossing to a large, ornate drinks cabinet. He didn't offer John anything as he poured himself a drink.

“Don't be an idiot, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, standing up and advancing on John without even glancing at his brother. “It's not as if you haven't wanted to punch me in the past.”

“Very true,” murmured Mycroft, but John was barely aware he was still in the room.

Sherlock halted less than three inches from him, his eyes fixed on John's with one of the most intent looks John had ever seen. He felt a little like a snake being charmed, captivated beneath the spell of Sherlock's fascination.

“Am I allowed to kiss you, or do I have to wait until after the punch is out the way?” asked Sherlock.

“I should make you wait,” said John, but even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

“Probably,” said Sherlock. He reached out for John's hips and pulled him gently towards him, and any resolve John might have had was lost. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pulling him in close and kissing him with all the pent-up frustration of the last few months.

Somewhere behind him, Mycroft let out a sigh, but was completely ignored by both Sherlock and John.

Sherlock kissed John as if he'd never thought he'd get to do it again, pulling him in tight and close so that their bodies were melded together. John slid one hand up into his hair, but kept the other one on his neck, holding him close in case he tried to pull away before John had got his fill. He couldn't believe how much he'd missed this, given that they'd only had it for a week or two before Sherlock had left. _And now we'll have it for the rest of our lives,_ he thought. There was no way he was letting Sherlock go away without him again, not for any reason.

“John,” said Sherlock very quietly against his lips once they'd finally broken apart. He didn't add anything else, but he didn't need to. John recognised in his tone everything that he was feeling as well.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “If you are quite finished, Sherlock, there is still work to be done.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock, still not relinquishing his hold on John. “We've got some time.”

“It would be better to be in place sooner rather than later,” said Mycroft.

“What's the plan?” John asked. “Where are we going?”

“We're taking down Moriarty's organisation tonight,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft's men are in place to arrest almost everyone involved. There is enough evidence to put most of them away – a few pawns may escape, but all the major players will be taken.”

“And then you'll be able to come home?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and his hands squeezed John's hips, betraying his pleasure at that.

An old-fashioned dial telephone that was sitting on the sideboard next to the drinks cabinet started to ring with a loud, shrill noise. Mycroft picked it up.

“Yes?” he said. “Yes, fine. I'll be there in a moment.”

He put the phone down. “You may wish to watch this, John,” he said. He pulled open a polished wooden panel to reveal a television and turned it on to show a grainy CCTV image. “This is the entrance of this building,” he said. “If you can manage to keep your attention off Sherlock for a few minutes, you will see the first part of this evening's plan. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

He left the room with a swift stride. Sherlock immediately took the chance to kiss John again.

“Hang on,” said John, pulling away slightly. “I want to see.”

Sherlock sighed. “We have at least two minutes before anything will happen.”

“Oh,” said John. “Well, then.” He resumed kissing Sherlock.

It felt like a lot less than two minutes when Sherlock pulled away. “Watch now,” he said.

John refocused his attention on the screen in time to see the door of the club burst open and a short, blond figure strode out. He seemed rather familiar, but it took John a few minutes to realise that was because he was dressed in exactly the same clothes as John was.

“Oh,” he said. “It's me.”

Sherlock snorted. “It wouldn't fool anyone who truly knew you. Luckily, Moriarty's observers are rather second-rate.”

The fake John gestured wildly for a taxi, which went past without stopping. He stomped a foot, apparently overcome with anger, then tried to flag another one with the same result.

“I seem a bit het up,” said John.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “I instructed him on exactly how to play it. He should start swearing in a minute.”

Another taxi went past, and the figure said something that definitely looked like a swearword. John wondered if that was really what he looked like when he was angry, or if that was just what Sherlock thought he looked like when he was angry. The front door of the club opened again, and Mycroft came out. He spoke, and the John lookalike turned around and said something short to him.

“Sound would be helpful,” said John.

“Mycroft is trying to persuade 'John' to come back inside and continue their dinner. 'John' is swearing at him,” said Sherlock. “I helped write the script. It implies that Mycroft was attempting to speak to you about your gambling addiction again, and 'John' had reacted rather predictably.”

John stiffened. It wasn't an _addiction_ , it was just a slight loss of control. “I don't have-”

“Yes, exactly like that,” said Sherlock. “Please can we avoid having the same argument as them?” He gestured at the screen. “I have already written out your part, after all. I know how flimsy your arguments are.”

John clenched his teeth, simmering with anger. “Maybe you didn't write him – me – accurately.”

“You better hope that I did,” said Sherlock. “We need to convince those watching that he is definitely you.”

On the screen, 'John' turned away from Mycroft and had another go at getting a taxi. This time, one actually stopped. Mycroft tried to prevent 'John' getting into it but 'John' shook him off, said something that looked rather rude, then slammed the car door behind himself. Mycroft watched the taxi drive away, then turned back into the club.

“Right,” said Sherlock. “That's our cue.” He took John's wrist and pulled him towards the drinks cabinet at the back of the room. He pulled on a bottle which swung down like a lever, and then the whole cabinet pivoted, revealing a passageway.

“Jesus,” said John. “This place is-”

“Ridiculous, yes,” agreed Sherlock. 

“What happens if someone actually tries to pour a drink from that bottle?” asked John.

Sherlock give him a scathing look. “It's Southern Comfort, John. Why on earth would anyone want to drink that? Come on, or Mycroft will come back and we'll be forced to talk to him again.” John allowed himself to be pulled into the passageway. 

“Don't speak while we're in here,” warned Sherlock. “The walls are rather thin.” He closed the cabinet behind them, then led the way through the narrow, dimly-lit space. John followed behind, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Eventually they found themselves at a dark hole in the floor. Sherlock started climbing down a ladder that led into the darkness below.

John started to wonder if they were about to run into some crime-solving children and their dog, or reveal a secret smugglers den. Instead, the ladder led into a cellar that was cluttered with old bits of furniture and piles of scrap wood.

“This way,” said Sherlock quietly, turning on a torch. They went through several more damp cellars, all filled with junk of some kind, then found themselves at a brick wall. Sherlock picked up a length of wood and used it to tap on a pair of metal doors set in the roof, of the kind that coal used to be delivered through. 

The doors were opened, revealing the night sky and a bland-looking man in a suit that John recognised as one of Mycroft's men. He dropped a rope ladder down to them and they climbed up. They came out in a tiny dark alleyway, only just big enough for the car that was idling at the end of it.

The man closed the coal doors as Sherlock and John got into the car, which immediately started moving.

“That was very cloak-and-dagger,” said John.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Mycroft's part of the plan,” he said. “He does love his elaborate plots.”

“Right,” said John. “And there's nothing elaborate about faking your own death for several months in order to take down a criminal mastermind.”

Sherlock glared at him. “It wasn't _elaborate_ ,” he said. “It was merely the most efficient and logical path.”

John glared at him. “No, it bloody wasn't,” he said. “Sherlock, there is nothing _efficient_ about leaving me to do nothing but pretend to be mourning for you. And watching everyone else actually mourn you – did you even think about that? Mrs. Hudson was devastated!”

Sherlock looked very uncomfortable, then glanced away. “It was necessary,” he insisted. “She'll understand.”

“She shouldn't have to,” said John. “She keeps trying to take care of me, you know. They all do. Lestrade keeps asking me out to the pub. He's upset as well, you know - he told me he was thinking about trying to get you a posthumous award from the Met. recognising all the work you did for them.”

Sherlock turned back to him with surprise. “Really?” he asked, sounding completely taken aback. “What's the point in giving an award to a dead person? It's not as if they'd ever know.”

John let out a long sigh. “Oh, forget it,” he muttered. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see,” said Sherlock, in the infuriating tone of voice he used when he was withholding information until he could reveal it in the most dramatic manner possible.

They sat in silence for several minutes, and then Sherlock said, “Lestrade was really trying to get me an award?”

“He'll probably go for a punch in the face instead when he finds out the truth,” said John. “For both of us.”

Sherlock didn't respond to that.

****

The car let them out in another dark alley. Sherlock picked the lock on a small door, then raised his finger to his lips as he led John inside. John clenched his jaw and wondered if he was ever going to find out what was going on, or if he'd just be led through a series of dark rooms all night.

The inside of the building was clearly undergoing some pretty major renovation. The stairs were in place, but there was no banister, or railings around the edge of the landings. Sherlock took them up two flights, then into an empty room that contained nothing but a couple of packing cases and a wardrobe that must have been too large to move.

“Do you know where we are now?” he asked John in a hushed whisper.

John stepped towards the window and realised, with a shock, that he was looking at 221 Baker Street. The room they were in was slightly higher than their sitting room, but he could see straight in through the windows of it.

“Oh,” he breathed. The most startling thing about it was probably that he was actually in their sitting room, sitting in his usual chair and holding a newspaper. “Is that the same man?” he asked Sherlock.

“No,” said Sherlock, but he didn't elaborate.

There was a tiny, soft sound from below that John probably wouldn't have noticed if Sherlock hadn't tensed at it. He grabbed John's wrist and pulled him into the wardrobe, closing the door almost all the way behind them.

“Be absolutely silent,” he hissed in John's ear, as if John was stupid enough to think that now was a good time for a discussion about the potential problems in David Cameron's economic policies.

A moment later, a dark figure crept into the room. He went straight to the window and looked across at 221B, and with the street lights shining on his face, John realised he recognised him. It was Sebastian Moran. He gave a rather unpleasant smirk when he spotted the fake John and took a bag off his back. Kneeling down, he pulled several metal parts from it then set to work assembling what John realised with a sick feeling was a sniper rifle.

They needed to warn Mycroft's man. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, trying to get his attention, but Sherlock just shook his head. John scowled and pulled again, but before Sherlock could respond, a voice spoke into the silence of the empty house, sending shivers down his spine.

“Oh Sebby, dear, you can't possibly be doing what I think you're doing.”

Moran spun around to look at the figure in the doorway, looking every bit as surprised as John was.

“Jim,” he said.

Sherlock's grip on John's hand became painfully tight, which made John think that maybe Moriarty's presence was a surprise to all three of them.

Moriarty stepped into the room, looking deceptively casual with his hands in his pockets. “We talked about this,” he said. “I told you to leave John Watson alive. I was very clear.” His voice was deceptively casual, but John could hear the threat in it. 

So could Moran, if the panicked look on his face was anything to go by. He pulled in a deep breath and stood up, leaving the rifle leaning against the window. “You were,” he agreed. “But that was before he started mucking about in my business. The police are asking questions, Jim. You know we can't have that.”

Sherlock carefully pulled his hand out of John's grip and put it in his pocket instead. In the silence before Moriarty spoke, John could hear the faint tap of mobile keys. He hoped like hell that it wasn't audible outside the wardrobe.

“Do I?” asked Moriarty. He tipped his head to one side. “Do you know what else we can't have? People going off and disregarding my orders, Sebby. You do as I say, or you're worthless to me. You know what happens to worthless people.”

Moran swallowed. “I'm not worthless,” he insisted. “You need me. John Watson is worthless – there's no reason to keep him alive, Jim, especially not now he's actively working against us. I don't understand why you didn't let me kill him weeks ago.”

“Oh, what can he do?” asked Moriarty. He walked over to the window and gestured at the newspaper-reading figure in 221B. “Look at him! He's so _mundane_. All he can do is repeat what cleverer men have told him, and hope some spot of luck like the Adair thing lands in his lap.” He turned and fixed Moran with a deadly glare. “Or, rather, that _someone_ screws up badly enough to let something like the Adair thing land in his lap.”

Moran swallowed again. “I know I screwed up,” he said. “I'm clearing it up, though.” He gestured at the rifle.

“By disregarding my orders!” said Moriarty. “Sebastian, darling, you know how I _hate_ that.”

Sherlock's hand re-emerged from his pocket and he took John's hand again. John wondered if he had any kind of plan at all, or if the appearance of Moriarty had screwed up whatever he'd had in place for tonight.

“I don't disregard the orders I understand,” said Moran. “You still haven't given me a good reason to let John Watson live, though.”

“Reason?” said Moriarty. “Oh, look at him! Just look! He's so completely alone and pathetic. Doesn't it make you smile just to see it? Poor, poor John, practically crying into his newspaper, nothing to do but gamble away all his money and sit around thinking about how much he misses his beloved Sherlock. It's like a piece of performance art, and I created it. It's the only thing I have left of Sherlock now: John Watson's grief.”

John thought he was going to be sick. He clenched his free hand into a fist, gritting his teeth. God, he wanted to punch the bastard's face in.

“Right,” said Moran. “Well, I'm not saying watching his misery isn't fun, but we need to be sensible. His grief won't be as fun to watch if it takes the form of revenge.”

Moriarty looked across at the fake John, and sighed. “I suppose you're right,” he said. “I hate being sensible, especially when things are so unendingly dull without Sherlock.”

“I thought you were enjoying branching out,” said Moran. He picked up his rifle again, and crouched down at the window to sight down it.

“Oh, I am,” said Moriarty. “New places, new people, new crimes – it's all very exciting, but it's not as much fun as having a nemesis. No one's playing the game with me anymore.” He stood next to Moran, gazing across the street. “Go on, then,” he said. “Get him right between the eyes.”

John started forward, meaning to stop them before they put a bullet in the head of Mycroft's man, but Sherlock's grip on his hand tightened, keeping him in place.

“If his head doesn't fall back too far, I could probably give him a smiley face to match the one on the wall,” said Moran.

“Oh!” said Moriarty, clapping his hands together. “Do that! He can participate in a final piece of art for us.”

“Right,” said Moran. There was a moment of concentration, then he fired off five shots in quick succession.

The moment the first bullet was fired, Sherlock was moving. He slammed open the door of the wardrobe, springing out at Moriarty and tackling him to the ground while Moran was still firing.

“Get Moran!” he shouted at John.

Moran was reacting quickly, bringing the rifle around to aim at the brawling figures of Sherlock and Moriarty. John strode towards him and punched him as hard as he could, then grabbed the gun while he was momentarily stunned, and threw it across the room. It slid across the floor and out onto the landing.

Moran didn't stay stunned for long. “You!” he growled, and flung himself at John.

John was vaguely aware of Sherlock and Moriarty continuing to fight as he struggled against Moran, but he couldn't spare the concentration to see who was winning. Moran was bigger and stronger than him, and clearly used to this kind of fighting on a regular basis, whereas John had spent the last few months doing nothing more strenuous than walk to the nearest bookies. He was severely out-classed, and it was only a matter of time before Moran bested him.

Or it would be, if John didn't still have his gun, tucked in his waistband. All he had to do was get a hand free for long enough to pull it out and aim it. Unfortunately, keeping Moran's hands from closing around his throat was taking not only both his hands and all his concentration, but most of the rest of his body as well.

“Sherlock!” he heard Moriarty gasp somewhere behind him. “This is the most delightful surprise!”

“Glad to oblige,” said Sherlock in a grim voice, then there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh and an 'ooph' as the air was driven out of someone's lungs.

Moran's attention was distracted for a split-second and John took immediate advantage of it, hooking his legs around Moran's in an effort to flip their positions and striking hard at Moran with a fist at the same time.

The move wasn't entirely successful. Moran refused to be flipped and he flung his hand up in order to block John's strike, although the blow still made him reel back. John used the moment to dart a hand round to his waistband, tugging out his gun.

“You _were_ too clever to fall for that silly bedsheets trick!” said Moriarty somewhere behind them, sounding out-of-breath but otherwise unharmed. “Oh, Sherlock, you truly are the best nemesis a boy could ask for.”

Before John could use his gun, Moran caught his wrist in a powerful grip, squeezing so tightly that John could feel his bones grinding together. He grimly held on to the gun, trying to distract Moran's attention from it by hitting at his face with his other hand.

“I wonder if you'll be saying that when you're in prison,” said Sherlock.

Moriarty laughed. “You still have to catch me,” he said. There was a rush and a thump, and Moriarty started laughing in a breathless, unhinged manner. “This is so much fun!” he gasped, just as there was the sound of another punch.

Moran was stronger than John. His grip around John's wrist was starting to be too much. John could feel his fingers going numb against the gun, losing their strength.

There was another punch, then a sharp clatter, followed by a grunt of pain from Sherlock. “No, you don't!” sang Moriarty, then there were three quick footsteps towards the landing, where John had thrown Moran's rifle.

Just as John's fingers were becoming completely nerveless, there was the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked.

“That's enough now,” said Moriarty.

Both John and Moran looked up. Moriarty was standing in the doorway, aiming the rifle at John. Sherlock was crouched on the floor beside one of the wooden boxes, which Moriarty had clearly thrown at him at some point.

“Take his gun, Sebby,” said Moriarty. “I've decided you were right. It's definitely time for John Watson to die.”

Sherlock let out a shout of pure anger and rushed at him, knocking him backwards. The rifle went off but the bullet buried itself harmlessly in the ceiling as both Sherlock and Moriarty fell backwards, over the edge of the landing and straight down.

John didn't let himself think. He punched Moran in the face as he was still staring at the place where Sherlock and Moriarty had disappeared, then pulled his wrist free from Moran's grip and brought the butt of his gun down on his head as hard as he could.

Moran immediately slumped on top of him, unconscious. John had to struggle to get out from underneath him, but he was barely aware of what he was doing. His whole being was fixed on picturing the fall from the landing, down the centre of two flights of stairs to the rough wooden floor below. He couldn't hear any noise at all, nothing but his own panting breaths as he finally managed to get free of Moran and stood up, lurching to the edge of the landing to look down.

Two stories below, Sherlock's body lay on top of Moriarty's. Neither of them was moving.

“Sherlock,” said John, then had to repeat it when it came out in a strangled whisper. “Sherlock!”

There was a groan, then Sherlock rolled over, off Moriarty. John nearly collapsed with relief. Sherlock raised a hand and gave John an 'okay' signal, and John realised he'd had the breath knocked out of him.

“Don't move,” he said. “I'm coming down.”

He glanced back at Moran, who was still unconscious, then rushed down the stairs, taking just enough care to avoid tripping and falling himself.

When he got down, Sherlock had propped himself up on one elbow in order to examine Moriarty. He pressed his fingers to Moriarty's neck, then shook his head with a scowl.

John couldn't have cared less about Moriarty. He dropped to his knees by Sherlock and glanced over his body quickly, looking for obvious injuries.

“I'm fine,” managed Sherlock.

“You're lying,” said John. One of Sherlock's arms was cradled to his chest and John could see that his wrist was at an odd angle.

“Fine,” said Sherlock. “I'm winded, bruised and I think my wrist is broken. Compared to Moriarty, whose neck is broken, I am fine. What about Moran?”

John took Sherlock's wrist carefully, examining it. “He's unconscious,” he said.

Sherlock gave him a beaming smile. “I knew my soldier was better.”

John gave him a look, but before he could say something terse in reply, there was a crash and the front door was kicked in.

“Police!” shouted a familiar voice.

“We're in here!” John shouted back.

Lestrade rushed in, followed by a squad of armed policemen. He stopped in shock, staring at Sherlock. “Jesus Christ!”

“Hello, Inspector,” said Sherlock. “I've brought you a present.” He nodded at Moriarty's body. “This is Jim Moriarty, international criminal mastermind. Upstairs is his second-in-command, Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

Lestrade pulled himself out of his shocked stare at that. “Moran?” he asked, glancing at John. “Ron Adair's killer?” He looked back at Moriarty's body. “He dead as well?”

“No,” said John. “Although he may need medical attention.”

Lestrade sighed, then nodded at a couple of his squad. “Go and sort him out.”

They disappeared upstairs.

Lestrade looked back at Sherlock. “You have an awful lot of explaining to do,” he said.

****

Sherlock only managed to give Lestrade the bare bones of an explanation in the commotion that followed. Paramedics arrived to examine both Sherlock and Moran, who had regained consciousness in time to be arrested, and to take away Moriarty's body. More police arrived to document everything, which meant Lestrade kept being called away to organise things.

Sherlock was sitting in the back of an ambulance, trying to persuade a paramedic that he really didn't need to go to hospital, when his phone began to ring. He glanced at the screen, made a face that John instantly recognised, and then went to put it back in his pocket.

“Don't you think you should answer it?” he said. “He probably wants to tell you how rounding up the rest of the organisation went.”

“He knows I prefer to text,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” muttered John, snatching the phone from Sherlock. “Sherlock's phone,” he answered it. “I'm afraid Sherlock is too lazy and childish to answer right now.”

“I'm not-” started Sherlock, but shut up when John glared at him.

“Good evening, John,” said Mycroft on the end of the phone. “Could you please inform my brother that the rest of Moriarty's organisation has been successfully taken into custody?”

“They got everyone,” John told Sherlock.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock.

John gritted his teeth with annoyance. “I take it you know what happened here,” he said to Mycroft.

“I've seen a report,” said Mycroft. “Could you please tell Sherlock that perhaps next time he could stay in hiding until the back-up he requests arrives? It might save him from any unexpected tumbles.”

The back-up Sherlock had requested? John remembered Sherlock's hand sliding into his pocket to his phone. “He texted you,” he realised.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “And I contacted Inspector Lestrade. And if Sherlock had any sense of self-preservation at all, he would have stayed hidden until the police arrived.”

John thought back to the moment Sherlock had rushed out of the wardrobe and remembered, with a sudden shock, the man in his armchair that Moran had been firing at.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed. “The man in our flat – the one pretending to be me – we need to make sure he's okay.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, John,” he said. “That's not necessary.”

John huffed. “Of _course_ it's necessary, Sherlock, just because he works for your brother-”

Mycroft interrupted him. “I can assure you, John, that no one currently in your flat works for me.”

“What?” said John.

Sherlock stood up. “Come on, I'll show you,” he said. He pulled the phone from John's fingers and hung it up without bothering to say goodbye to Mycroft, then tucked it in his pocket.

“You're not going anywhere,” said the paramedic. “You need to go to hospital – we need to x-ray your wrist, at the very least.”

“Plenty of time for that later,” said Sherlock.

“Sir, I must insist,” said the paramedic, which John could have told him was entirely the wrong tack to take.

“What's going on?” asked Lestrade, coming over from where he'd been talking to the crime scene photographer.

“I need to show John something,” said Sherlock. “I'll be back in a bit. In fact, Lestrade, you might as well come as well – you'll want to take it as evidence against Moran for the charge of attempting to murder John.”

“You need to come with us,” said the paramedic.

“It's fine,” said John, taking pity on him. “I'll make sure he comes straight back, and that he then goes to the hospital with you.” Sherlock let out a long sigh, and John fixed him with a glare. “Even if I have to borrow Lestrade's handcuffs to do it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I wasn't aware you were that kinky, John.”

Lestrade glanced at him and John felt himself start to blush, but he kept a glare fixed on Sherlock.

“Oh, fine,” relented Sherlock. “I'll allow myself to be carted off, just come up to the flat first.”

The paramedic finally backed down and let Sherlock lead John and Lestrade over the road to 221B. One of the windows was shattered and John thought, glumly, that Mrs. Hudson was likely to take that out of the rent. It had only been six months since she'd had to have them replaced after Moriarty's bomb, after all.

Sherlock led them up the stairs to the sitting room, then flung open the door and gave a dramatic flourish. “You see?”

John looked. Sitting in his chair was a slumped figure with bullet holes riddling his face. It took John a split-second to realise that there was no blood and that, in fact, the figure was nothing more than a dummy. A dummy dressed in his clothes, he noticed, thankful that Moran had decided to go for a headshot. The last thing he wanted was bullet holes in his favourite jumper.

“Christ,” said Lestrade, glancing at John. “Thank god you weren't sitting there.”

“Yeah,” agreed John.

“Not God,” said Sherlock. “Thank _me_. I was the one who made sure John was not here.”

He sounded insufferably smug, and John had just about had enough of that. Time to make it clear that the last thing that Sherlock was getting was John's thanks over the way he had handled this.

“It's all over then,” he said. “Mycroft's taken down the organisation, Moriarty's dead, Moran's in custody – this whole thing is over?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “It's completed.”

John nodded to himself. “Right,” he said, then pulled back his fist and threw the punch he'd been waiting months for.

His intention must have been obvious, but Sherlock didn't move. He just let John's fist slam into his face, reeling back from the force of it, although John hadn't hit him as hard as he would have yesterday, or even a few hours ago.

“Jesus!” said Lestrade, taking a step forward.

“Happy?” Sherlock asked John.

“Not really,” said John. “If you ever, and I mean ever, Sherlock, do anything even remotely like this to me again, that's it, okay? I'll leave.”

Sherlock sighed. “John, it was-”

“No,” interrupted John. Sherlock needed to understand how deadly serious John was about this. “There are no excuses, or extenuating circumstances. Either we do this together, or not at all.”

Sherlock studied him for a long moment, then jerked a nod. “Understood.”

“Right then,” said John. “Let's get you to hospital.”

Lestrade shook his head. “You're getting off lightly,” he said to Sherlock. “If someone I was seeing let me think they were dead for months, I wouldn't let them go with just a punch. And I definitely wouldn't stay with them afterwards.”

Oh god, thought John. He glanced at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows in an unmistakable question. For a moment John was very tempted to let Lestrade continue to think that John had been deceived over Sherlock's death as well. It would be much easier than having to confess that, actually, he'd been lying to everyone for months.

It wouldn't be the truth though, and it would make Sherlock look even worse than he already was. John took a deep breath. “Actually,” he said, “I knew Sherlock was alive. He left me a note before he disappeared.”

Lestrade stared at him. “You're kidding,” he said. “You knew? The whole time?”

“Yeah,” said John. “I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you, but if Moriarty had got even a hint that Sherlock was alive-”

“But you were devastated!” said Lestrade. “That was just acting? You were falling to pieces!”

John winced. He hadn't been that bad, had he?

“John had to make it look convincing. He was the only one that could make Moriarty believe that I was truly dead,” said Sherlock. He looked at John. “I was very impressed, by the way. You did far better than I was expecting.”

John glared at him. “You're a bastard.”

“So are you,” said Lestrade. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, I can't believe you both played us like this.”

“I gave John very little choice in the matter,” said Sherlock.

“Still,” said Lestrade. “I should punch you both, but I'm pretty sure Sherlock's already taken enough beatings today, and it seems a bit unfair to only hit John.”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Sherlock. “In the meantime, you should probably do something with that dummy. I don't really want it to still be cluttering up the flat when I get back from the hospital.”

“I'll clutter you up,” muttered Lestrade, but he obligingly went and found some constables to document the scene and then remove the dummy.

John took his chance to get Sherlock back downstairs and into the back of the ambulance. The paramedic didn't wait around for Sherlock to find some other reason to delay their departure and started off for the hospital immediately.

****

It was morning before they got back to 221B and stumbled straight to bed, and evening when John woke up in Sherlock's bed with Sherlock fast asleep next to him, clinging onto him with a grip that John was impressed he could keep up whilst asleep.

He took a few minutes to lie there and enjoy the moment. He was finally in Sherlock's bed, with Sherlock beside him, where he had been longing to be since long before the incident at the swimming pool.

Sherlock came awake slowly, flexing his fingers around John's wrist but not letting go, and then turned hos head in order to push his face into John's shoulder with a tiny noise that told John how much he had needed ten uninterrupted hours of sleep. He wondered how long it had been since Sherlock had had that luxury. Sherlock had been frustratingly vague on the details of his last few months last night.

“You're already getting tense,” said Sherlock. “Stop it.”

John forced himself to relax again. He could interrogate Sherlock later. Right now, he was going to run his hand through Sherlock's hair and concentrate on how lovely it was to have him there.

Sherlock made a humming noise and pushed his head into John's fingers. “I almost cut it off in order to be less recognisable,” he said. “But I knew you'd want to be able to do precisely this when I got back.”

“Amongst other things,” agreed John.

Sherlock pushed himself up on the arm he didn't have a cast on and gave him a grin that verged on wicked. “Well, you got the punch out of the way yesterday. What else is on the list?”

As if he didn't know. John put his arms around Sherlock and gently tumbled them over, taking care to guard Sherlock's injured arm, until he was hovering over Sherlock's body. “This,” he said, and bent to kiss him.

Now that John's lungs were completely recovered, there was no reason to stop with just a kiss. They still had to work around Sherlock's wrist though, and John could tell from the way he moved that his bruises from the fall had left his muscles stiff. He wondered if they'd ever manage to have sex when they were both completely healthy, then the thought got swept away by the skill of Sherlock's fingers, the slide of his skin, and the taste of his mouth.

Afterwards, Sherlock allowed John nearly half a minute of post-coital contentment before he said, “Of course, you'll stop gambling now.”

John groaned. “Can't this wait?”

“No point,” said Sherlock. “There's been enough waiting. All you need to do is agree, and then we can forget the whole thing.”

“And if I don't agree?” asked John, more out of contrariness than anything else. After all, he'd already stopped last week, although that information didn't seem to have filtered through to Sherlock.

“John, do you have any idea how much money you've lost over the last five months? You couldn't pay the rent!”

“Well, what else was I meant to do?” asked John. “I needed something to distract me from the fact that I had no idea where you were, what you were doing, or if you were even still alive!”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then gave a little nod. “You were trying to find a gamble you could control. There's no need now I'm back, though. There will be plenty of risks for you to take without resorting to cards.”

“Like whether or not you'll bugger off again without warning?” asked John.

Sherlock's expression became intently serious and he leaned in close to John. “Don't be ridiculous, John, I promised not to last night. Can't you see that I'm not a risk at all? When it comes to you, I never have been. I'll always want to be here with you rather than anywhere else. That's not a gamble, that's a certainty.”

John felt his breath hitch as if his lungs were still damaged. He put his hand on Sherlock's face, tracing over the lines of his cheekbone. “I love you,” he said as carefully as he could. Sherlock's eyes widened, but John wasn't finished. “Being without you was awful – worse than before I met you. Everything was just so, so-” he stuck on a word that would describe the endless grey wasteland that had been his life, but there was nothing that could completely encapsulate it, so he settled for, “empty.”

“John,” breathed Sherlock, but John still wasn't done.

“That's why you can't leave me again,” he said. “I don't care how dangerous something is, I'm coming with you. And in return, I promise I won't gamble anymore.”

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, then gave a nod. “It's a deal,” he said, then bent in and sealed it with a kiss. “I promise, John, I'll make your life interesting enough that you won't even think about gambling.”

That was exactly what John wanted to hear. He pulled Sherlock back in for another kiss, stroking his hands down his back. After all, they had nothing left to do, no criminal masterminds left to take out, and they finally had the luxury to do nothing but spend the whole day in bed.

From the way Sherlock relaxed against John, he could tell that he was more than okay with that plan.


End file.
